<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>A Dead Man's Honor by MockingbirdsQuill</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28198368">A Dead Man's Honor</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MockingbirdsQuill/pseuds/MockingbirdsQuill'>MockingbirdsQuill</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Wind of Winter [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Book 6: The Winds of Winter, F/M, Major character death - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Multi, POV Asha Greyjoy, POV Barristan Selmy, POV Cletus Yronwood, POV Jaime Lannister, POV Melisandre of Asshai, POV Samwell Tarly, POV Sansa Stark, POV Theon Greyjoy, POV Tyrion Lannister, POV Victarion Greyjoy, Post - A Dance With Dragons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:08:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>153,370</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28198368</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MockingbirdsQuill/pseuds/MockingbirdsQuill</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Amidst treason and snow, black cloaks slew the bastard of Winterfell. Amidst flame and ash, a dragon queen rides to places unknown. Amidst plots and love, the wolf maid prepares to wed the Young Falcon. Amidst songs and cheers, a dragon king rises to greet his kingdom. The realm wailed in the fires of five kings, yet their flames have not faded. In the North, the burning stag battles against doom and frost. In the south, a boy king hangs upon a treacherous throne by a thread. Consumed by the ashen smoke of war, the kingdoms still sputter in ruin and steel. Though powers mightier than gods or men now move pieces on the board that is Westeros, and lingering fires have begun to gutter out. From its forgotten source in lands beyond wisdom, the winds of winter march to engulf the realm in another Long Night. When winter comes, seeing the next dawn is a man's greatest wish. When winter comes, only dead men have honor.</p><p>Part I of IV of A Wind of Winter, a sequel to A Dance with Dragons.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Wind of Winter [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2236149</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>82</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. PROLOGUE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>George R. R. Martin's work has always been one of my favourite literary worlds. After I read A Dance with Dragons, I looked forward to the sequel. I must admit that I grew impatient as time passed, and a few months ago I began writing my own fan interpretations of the next book in my downtime. I cannot say that my work is even a fraction of George R.R. Martin's brilliance, and I know that he personally does not encourage others manipulating his world. I therefore cannot claim that this writing can be a true continuation to canon, as I am not a professional writer. This is only a hobby that I hope would be free for other readers like to read, enjoy, and criticize.</p><p>It is preferred that a knowledge on the main ASoIaF books, from A Game of Thrones to A Dance with Dragons, is known. This book takes place right after A Dance with Dragons, and aims to provide a conclusion to A Song of Ice and Fire. A Dead Man's Honor is the first of a four-part series that will cover The Winds of Winter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The wintry winds of Castle Black would often freeze a man to the bone, and many a dawn the Watch would find the night's guard dead at their posts. Yet in all the sorrowful years of the Old Ranger's life, he never tasted the cold that bit into his skin this very morning.<br/>
<br/>
Even those fifteen long years ago, when he had delivered those winter rations in the dead of the cold, when he was still Derryk Rivers, he had warmed at the prospect of his waiting family and reward from his liege lord. That optimism was ill-founded then, as half the supplies were spoiled by the accursed winter winds and his lord gave him the choice between death and the Wall. Even then, his hatred and anger disguised the cold that stemmed from his fear of the unknown North.<br/>
<br/>
Thinking back, he wondered what became of the little girl left behind with her mother. His daughter had only three namedays when he departed for the Wall. He was shocked, after a moment in thought, that he could not remember what he had named her. He had never ventured South in all his years in the Watch to visit, though he had a chance to become a recruiter. The pain was simply too great to look upon what he had forsaken. Most like his daughter was dead, from what he had heard from the Riverlands, dead in the King in the North's war.</p><p>Like a thousand times before, he silently berated himself,"<em>I have no daughter now, no more than I have a name. I have only brothers, brothers of the Night's Watch that share in my cold</em>."<br/>
<br/>
Rising through the Watch's ranks as one of the Wall's most skilled rangers, he shared in the warmth and camaraderie of his comrades-in-arms. Kind old Lord Mallister, who had been visiting Castle Black at the time of his initiation, had demanded that the new recruit be assigned to the Shadow Tower. In the Night's Watch, he found the pride that he had never known as the lowly servant of a Riverland lord. No man saw him unworthy upon his bastard birth, the baseborn child of a common smith. In his rangings beyond the Wall to the frigid lands of the wildlings, he could as easily find a wildling whore to warm his bed for a night as flipping his hand.<br/>
<br/>
But now, despite the roaring heat of the torches in the courtyard and his heavy furs, he felt uncannily cold, a frigidness that he had not felt in all the dreadful winters of his life. A torch of righteousness had warmed him all his life, yet that was gone now, and only cold remained.<br/>
<br/>
Last night, when he had held one of the accursed knives, when he had thrust it in the back of the Lord Commander, he had told himself repeatedly in order to do the deed, that it was the right thing to do, a noble act to take, as Jon Snow had deserted the Watch and abandoned his brothers for a petty dispute down south.<br/>
<br/>
When Lord Mallister had first received the missive that outlined Castle Black's dire need of men, he volunteered to serve the new Lord Commander. Both his sword and his knowledge would be invaluable to Lord Snow. The boy required guidance, and he was there to give it. Though when he arrived, he found that Jon Snow had lost his way, had betrayed all they stood for, had betrayed his brothers. He knew of the boy's honour, his sense of duty, his great feats, yet to uphold the oath of the Watch, the order that had cherished him more than his own mother, he did what he must do.<br/>
<br/>
"<em>For the Watch</em>," he had said as he withdrew his knife. His gloves were coated in warm liquid, though in the dark of night he did not know whether the gleam was the shimmering reflection of blood or his tears. If it was for a righteous cause, he did not feel any less guilt from becoming a traitor and a mutineer. He felt.. emptiness that continuously gnawed on his inside.<br/>
<br/>
Jon Snow's body lay on a pyre now, ready to be burned in the manner befitting a Lord Commander. Bowen Marsh, acting Lord Commander until a new man could be elected, presided over the proceedings. Lord Marsh, who had found him and told of Lord Snow's treachery. He had thrust the first knife. He wondered if the steward felt the same remorse over betraying their lord. He supposed so, as the boy was a deserter and would not deserve such a grand funeral worthy only of the best of the Watch, yet Marsh insisted on it.<br/>
<br/>
"Jon Snow came to the Watch as a boy," the steward began," the bastard of Winterfell, the wolf lord's son. I thought him at the beginning no more than that, a pompous youngster who would flaunt his status to gain power within our ranks. Lord Snow proved me grievously wrong. Lord Commander Mormont saw something of himself in the young man, a capacity to not only fight, but to lead. Young as he was, he gave everything to serve the Watch. Alone beyond the wall, in lands treacherous and barren, Jon Snow proved his valor by infiltrating the wildling camp, who had then thought of us as their bitter enemies. This he did in service of the Watch, a feat few would have the courage or strength to attempt and succeed. Lord Snow did, to gain us crucial tidings in defending the Wall. He led the defense of our castle when Lord Mormont fell and none other would take the helm. And now, when faced with the threat of the true enemy, he put aside his enmity with our wildling brothers, who had slain many of his friends and fellow Watchmen, and welcomed them to bolster our otherwise meagre defense. He became a true man of the Night's Watch. It was for these deeds of courage and leadership that we chose him as our rightful Lord Commander, as the man that could lead us in all the nights to come. His desertion does not make any of his accomplishments any less the tale of heroes. And now his watch has ended."<br/>
<br/>
"And now his watch has ended," the Old Ranger and his brothers echoed. Silence followed, and possibly by a trick of the eye, he caught a glimmer of a white blur move among the opposing battlements. He closed his eyes and shook his head. The figure disappeared.<br/>
<br/>
First Builder Yarwyck handed Bowen Marsh the torch, and the steward, after a moment's hesitation, lit up Jon Snow's pyre. He unconsciously felt the caress of hot tears down his cheek. Whatever he chose in his last days, he was at one time a true man of the order. One, if the tales be true, of their best men.<br/>
<br/>
"<em>The best men sometimes turn out to be the worst</em>,"  he heard Qhorin Halfhand's voice echo. He remembered the time when he had served with the man at the Shadow Tower. A mentor of sorts, and the best of their fellowship, the Halfhand had led some of the Old Ranger's first rangings. He knew who Qhorin spoke of truthfully. Mance Rayder was as dear a friend as any to him. Though many thought Mance had turned his cloak for a wildling woman, he had known the truth for more than ten years. His friend had discovered the growing threat in the Lands of Always Winter, and deserted to save his people. His cause was honourable, while Snow's was selfish. The Night's Watch took no part in the squabbles of the realm. When Bowen showed him the letter, he mourned for his former friend. Mance was ever a brother to him, yet mourn was all he did. He would never march south and desert his cloak, even if he had an army ten thousand strong. Though if he received a letter that threatened his daughter, would he ride south? He did not wish to answer that question.<br/>
<br/>
The Old Ranger glanced side to side. Many of his brothers were sharing his sentiment for Lord Snow. Their tears froze to their cheeks by the winter cold, mirroring the glace of his own. He stared back at the pyre, and watched the blaze slowly spread from the steward's torch to engulf the body.<br/>
<br/>
The late Lord Commander looked strangely at peace. Lord Snow closed his eyes to the mortal world.</p><p>He wore only his Night's Watch undershirt, as every extra fur was precious for the Watch. His skin shone blue from the caress of the piercing breeze. Men had cleaned his body, so the wounds from their blades were hidden. Much as the wounds that the winds would make upon a naked man, the six treasons were concealed. <br/>
<br/>
He stared in a trance at the flame that spread along the dry branches, consuming Lord Snow in its blaze. <br/>
<br/>
The Red Woman had claimed that she could see visions her god granted her, visions of the future in the fires. He was never a godly man, for what god would have abandoned a child to fend for himself, as he did when he was young. But the Red Woman's words left a queer taste, and though only recently acquainted with this foreign god, he felt more penchant to her teachings than he ever did with the septons of the Seven.<br/>
<br/>
The Red Woman was not here, nor were the men that King Stannis had left at Castle Black. Only black cloaks attended to Lord Snow's passing.<br/>
<br/>
He sought to see whether the Red Woman's words rang true. Yet when he stared at the roaring flame, as he watched the corpse crumble into ash, he saw only what was plain to see. Fire... and death.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. QUENTYN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When he was still a young boy, his grandmother used to tell him the story of Mors Martell and Yorick Yronwood. It had been one of his favourite stories to hear in his youth.</p><p>Yorick's father, King Cletus, had defeated Mors Martell's father in the war for the dominion of the fertile lands along the Vaith. As compensation for the war, King Andros Martell had to pay not only in the land he lost, but also his second son as a ward to foster at the castle of Yronwood.</p><p>The young prince Mors had only four namedays when his father bartered him away for peace. King Cletus, though, caring and mindful that a child need not pay for the errors of his father, raised young Mors Martell alongside his own children as if he were his own son. Prince Mors grew increasingly attached to each of his foster siblings, particularly to King Cletus's son and heir Prince Yorick, who was of an age with him. They were like trueborn brothers, inseparable and closer than Yorick was with his blood siblings. Some have speculated that they were closer than brothers.</p><p>When he was of an age, Mors Martell even went as far as to ask for Princess Arella's hand in marriage. Wishing to cement the peace between the two houses, King Cletus agreed to the union between his daughter and his ward. They were to wed when Mors Martell and Princess Arella both came of age, at which King Cletus would send the newly wed couple back to Firststone. Firststone was the name for Sunspear before the Rhoynar. Legend told that the First Men built their first city in Westeros at that location. When the Children broke the Arm of Dorne, it became a city on the coast of the Narrow Sea. None now remembered its name, for the roots of the Rhoynish have set in deeply.</p><p>All had seemed well, as peace seemed to have been achieved. This was the time when disaster struck, as a wave of the Golden Pestilence reached Firststone through a trading galley. King Andros was able to contain the sickness to the city, but half its inhabitants, including King Andros himself, his firstborn son and heir, and his two daughters, fell to the plague.</p><p>The succession fell to Mors Martell, who became the new King of the Sandship. King Andro's castellan and temporary regent, Palymros Toland, wrote a letter to King Cletus addressing the lack of available heirs and asking for Mors Martell to return and assume his kingship. The young prince was only fourteen at the time, but King Cletus allowed for his ward to return to his home, as he himself knew the dangers of a kingdom without a king.</p><p>It was said that when Mors Martell left the gates of Yronwood, he and Yorick, amidst tears of sadness, swore an oath of brotherhood and perpetual friendship upon the light of the Seven. They were to be true brothers, after all, in four years when Princess Arella turned of age. He remembered hearing of the oath, as a boy who did not understand the futility of words. He had thought that they would never drift apart, much less become the mortal enemies that they did.</p><p>"<em>Be it gods or men</em>,"it began,"<em>sun and snow, winter and summer, spear and sword. Look upon us and we swear by the Seven, an oath of kinship and brotherhood</em>." It went on, as it beseeched each of the Seven to bless their kinship. He had almost fallen asleep the first time his grandmother had told the story. "<em>And by the Stranger we swear, that we will remain brothers, bound not by blood but by love, from this day until the end of our days </em>." The oath ended there.</p><p>It was the last time any Yronwood saw the sole banner of the spear of Martell. In the years to come, a different banner will blow upon the castle battlements. The spear again, but with a sun in companion.</p><p>King Cletus was taken by a sickness the following year, and Prince Yorick ascended to the throne as King Yorick, the Fifth of his Name. Two princes that were brothers, now both kings, and soon to be bound by marriage. It had seemed, when he was young, the recipe of a happy ending. He had thought that the Martell would marry his princess as he was bid and they would live forever in peace.</p><p>"<em>I was sorely mistaken</em>. <em>It was a fantasy of a callow boy unlearned in the truth of the world.</em>"</p><p>Singers and bards sing to this day the love between Mors Martell and Nymeria, of the love that blossomed the day the gallant Prince Mors met the beautiful Queen Nymeria with her thousand ships at the mouth of the Greenblood. The songs, however, had once taken a darker tone, a lament of a broken vow. It was so until Prince Morion, not Morion the Mad but another just as insane, ordered the death of every bard who sang ill of Mors Martell. He ordered his maesters to remove any mention of Mors Martell's relationship with the Yronwoods from the annals of all the castles of Dorne. Only the history of the castle of Yronwood survived the purge, and to this day only the falsehoods are taught by maesters. The Martells tailored the histories, so as to appear more heroic and more righteous. West Dorne was already at the time under the Kingdom of the Boneway, stretching from the Red Mountains to the Summer Sea. The figure of King Varian Dayne never existed, nor was the Kingdom of the Torrentine existent at the time, yet there they were, taught in the schools of children of the heroic capture of Starfall's lands. To sully the Yronwood name, and appear as though the Martells united the petty kings of Dorne, the writers of Prince Morion the Maester lived to his name.</p><p>"<em>Perhaps it is best this way, that children may be ignorant of the foul deeds their ancestors wrought</em>," he gazed at the burnt body of who was once Prince Quentyn Martell. "We were like brothers," he murmured as tears began cascading again down his cheeks, " like Mors Martell and Yorick Yronwood. Brothers, now and always. Yet the Stranger took you before your time, and left me to linger along."</p><p>The bed was finely laid with silks and jewel draperies, as it was meant to be the bed of the queen. "<em>You deserved much and more.</em><em>You were to become Prince of Dorne. We were to remake the legends of old, this time with a happier end. And have bards sing the truth, not falsehoods for centuries to come</em>."</p><p>He remembered the ending of the story. Nymeria and her thousand ships carried the Rhoynar across the sea to invade Westeros. The Martell king agreed to settle them in his lands, as too few were his people after the plague, but the queen wanted more. She seduced young Mors Martell with her beauty, stroked his ambition to become lord of all the region the maesters had called Dorne, and convinced him to turn against his sworn brother to aid the Rhoynar in their conquest.</p><p>Yorick Yronwood had not wished to believe in the tidings at first, even as reports were increasingly received at the Boneway of the aggression of the Sandship to the other petty Dornish kings. It was not until the first Rhoynish strikes against the Yronwood border did he believe the terrible tidings and rallied his banners. Yronwood scouts saw no longer the sole spear on enemy banners, but the united sun and spear of Mors Martell and Nymeria.</p><p>The king had wed the warrior-queen in a public declaration of unity and an alliance. He took the Rhoynish style of "Prince" rather than the Andal title of "King".</p><p>It was the greatest war Dorne had seen before the Young Dragon. No longer was it a petty border skirmish over a few fields and waterholes, but a bloody war of total conquest. It pitted brothers against former brother, kin against kin. In the old days, it was not uncommon that one brother will fight for the Sandship and the other for the Boneway. No matter who won, they would be cursed as a kinslayer.</p><p>The gods were not so forgiving of oaths broken, either.</p><p>The coalition of Martell and Rhoynar were exhausted after years of war, and so the war was ground to a stalemate despite their numbers. After losing several battles in the deserts of Dorne to the fierce Rhoynish hosts that once trembled Valyria, King Yorick burned his fields and retreated to the Red Mountains, where he had gathered his stockpiled harvest. Twice the Rhoynish hosts tried to break the Boneway, four times the Prince's Pass, then called the King's Gate, and the men of Yronwood stood unyielding. The Daynes of Starfall, loyal bannermen of the Yronwoods, had flooded the Torrentine and closed the Heaven's Gate. The food stores of Martell could not sustain the massive hosts of the Rhoynar for long. It was temporarily remedied by raiding the winter stores of the kingdoms he conquered, but it was not a solution.</p><p>Winter was not as harsh in Dorne as it was in northern lands, but temperatures still froze rivers and forbade harvest. Winter was coming for the Rhoynar.</p><p>King Yorick had written to King Durran Durrandon of the Stormlands, the fourth of his name, and King Mern Gardener of the Reach, the seventh of that name. Unlike Dorne, the Reach and the Stormlands were then united kingdoms.</p><p>The Yronwood king spoke of betrothing his recently unburdened sister and his other brother in exchange for alliances from his fellow kings. He also spoke of granting lands along the Marches if they would send aid. Both kings had vested interests in their southern frontier, and they agreed.</p><p>They prohibited any shipping of food or other necessities to the Martells. The Reach had a navy at the time second only to the Ironborn. A Gardener host mobilized and was preparing to march through the Red Mountains and strengthen King Yorick. The war had been in his favor, yet King Yorick lost it with his rashness.</p><p>One day, the king heard that Prince Mors Martell led a host of men close to his garrison at the Boneway. Against the sound counsel of his bannermen and advisors, he set out with a large portion of his garrison to kill his former brother. The betrayal ran deeply, as Mors Martell had not only broken his betrothal, but also his oath of brotherhood. The report had been true, but it underestimated the strength of Martell's forces. Even after seeing a much greater company than he had expected, King Yorick stubbornly ordered the assault. So great was the fury of Yronwood's men that after a bloody battle ensued, the Boneway stood victorious, and Mors Martell was slain by King Yorick. He did not know what his ancestor had thought when he struck his sword in his childhood friend's chest.</p><p>Victory came at a drastic cost, as many a man-at-arms died that day. Prince Mors Martell's retinue also fought with an unprecedented ferocity to protect their lord, even when it was clear that the battle was lost. It was said that no man broke that day, as every spear fought to their last breath. The best of the Dornish fell in that battle.</p><p>It was disaster for King Yorick. His garrison was heavily battered by the enemy, a loss that could have been avoided had he stomached his anger and remained in the Boneway. Meanwhile, Prince Mors became a martyr of the Rhoynish and Martell armies. Instead of dampening their spirits with the tiding of the prince's fall, it only gave them renewed vigor and determination to avenge their dead prince. They fought now to see Prince Mors's killers dead.</p><p>Princess Nymeria took charge of the host herself, and led a third and final onslaught on the Boneway. This time, the fortress did not hold, and King Yorick was forced to retreat from his own ancestral castle. Without the natural barrier, Nymeria's men swiftly captured the remaining Yronwood strongholds, taking King Yorick and his household prisoner. Perhaps it was a stroke of mercy as Nymeria pitied the brothers, or perhaps a necessity for the surrender of Allyrion Sand, the keeper of the Prince's Pass, and Lady Aldene Dayne of Starfall, the Rhoynish queen allowed King Yorick to take the black, and his infant son to continuing holding the Boneway as her vassal.</p><p>"<em>And that is how the tale ended</em>. <em>Prince Mors dead. King Yorick at the Wall, and a Rhoynish queen, a foreign queen, on the throne of Dorne</em>."</p><p>The girl had placed a veil over Prince Quentyn's head, perhaps preparing him for burial. He lifted the veil, and saw the face that he once knew so full of life and joy. The face itself was spared the fires, but he could see the burn scars beginning to creep around the side of his head.</p><p>"<em>All this for what. F</em><em>or the heart of the dragon queen that would never be truly yours, as Nymeria's was never your ancestor's? Is it for something greater then, for duty to our people? For duty to Dorne? </em>"</p><p>He laughed bitterly,"It was not without reason that we staged the piracy to have you believe that I was dead. You, stubborn and selfless as you are, would never let me disguise myself as you to face the dragon queen in you place. We did not know her, so we dared nor risk your presence. All of what we did, we did so you can rightfully become the Prince of Dorne. All so you could be safe to fulfill your duty to your people. Yet you died all the same."</p><p>"<em>History repeats itself, it would seem</em>. <em>A Dornish prince is doomed to fall in love with a foreign queen, a match that would spell death and destruction for all</em>."</p><p>He sighed. It was near time that he should finish paying his respects. Matters outside could not wait any longer.</p><p>"Farewell, my brother," he said as he kissed Prince Quentyn on the forehead,"If you can hear me from your place in the seven heavens, know that you will never be forgotten. Know that your name shall not fade to be a mark on a history. You shall be remembered as one of Dorne's wisest and most valiant princes to ever rule."</p><p>He picked up his sword that was lying against the wall. It was a gift from Prince Quentyn for his twelfth nameday. His father had never given him a gift of such expense and extravagance.</p><p>"<em>Chastity is the first thing you should learn, my son</em>," his father had always said,"<em>particularly for us lesser lords</em>."</p><p>The sun's light shone upon the bronze coating. It made it seem as if it glimmered with radiance of its own.</p><p>Made from the finest castle-forged steel, and Oran was one of the most skilled blacksmiths in Westeros, it was an exquisite gift. It held a hilt with a carving of the gate of House Yronwood. Its guard sported beautifully etched runes of the First Men, from whom the Yronwoods claim descent, bronze finely laid over the steel.</p><p>The smith had made this gift out of reverence towards the Prince's position. He said that it was free of charge when he heard who it was meant for.</p><p>He had never needed or used another sword in his life. It was only a small remnant of his friend, but even the littlest of comforts matter. Remembering the blade, he had forgotten for a moment that his best friend lay dead. Reality and despair rankled his mind yet again.</p><p>He glanced at his lifelong brother one last time. The true prince had fallen. The mummer's prince rose.</p><p>Near the bedroom door, he encountered the body of the girl.</p><p>A fresh wave of unease swept up his throat. It was not easy to slay her.</p><p>"<em>But it was necessary</em>." She knew that boy in the bed was Quentyn Martell, and she is close to the queen. He would deal with the old knight and the Shavepate later.</p><p>He did not think it prudent to slay the guards that were stationed outside. They would know what had occurred inside, but the queen would not trust the word of a simple sellsword. After all, women and girls died all the time in a siege. It would not be so tough a story to sell.</p><p>"<em>It was the only way</em>," he remembered the blood sliding down his sword as he withdrew it from the girl's chest. Maiden's blood, and pure. It did not linger long upon his blade. He had slain an innocent. The storming of the Great Pyramid had not been easy, as the queen's guards fought long and hard. In the end, the Windblown proved the better.</p><p>His father's words rang in his ears,"<em>If a man should kill, he should not fear staining his hands with his victim's blood</em>."</p><p>"<em>Only hard men can make their way in this cruel world</em>," he thought,"<em>If Prince Quentyn had lived, I would have risen as his second-hand man when he rose to become Prince of Dorne, and did my best to serve him. He is dead now, and I must take the mantle</em>." Little enough men could tell the difference between Prince Quentyn and himself. They had been reliant on recognizing his lazy eye and his rowdy character, both of which could be amended. Prince Doran himself had struggled to distinguish between them the last time he had visited Yronwood.</p><p>He would have to abandon his name, and take the name Martell for the rest of his life, but it was a suitable price.</p><p>Prince Doran had sent Prince Quentyn with a mission to fulfill, a mission that concerned the future of Dorne. His brother was dead, so he had to take his place and see the Prince's wishes realized.</p><p>Quentyn ripped his gaze from the corpse and gazed at the light that emerged at the end of the corridor. Duty awaited him beyond the doorway. He steeled himself once again from the tears that threatened to escape his eyes, for honor makes no king.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. TYRION</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The lone horseman rode towards the Yunkish camp, out of range of the bows of the Second Sons. Brown Ben Plumm had sent several scouts in pursuit upon their fastest mounts, yet it was clear that the spy had gotten away. Tyrion supposed that he should not have been surprised that a Yunkish spy had infiltrated their encampment.</p><p>He heard the captains mutter unintelligible words, perhaps curses. He sympathized with them. Had any of the Antler Men given Stannis word of his wildfire or bridge of chains, his own ashes may already lie on the grand pyre that the rebel king was sure to make of the city.</p><p>"<em>By rights</em>," he thought,"<em>they should have been suspicious</em>." The youth had joined their company a month ago, as Tybero Istarion the paymaster said, not ever having stated his home or prior name. There were many a sellsword in their company that were of the same origin, though. His mannerisms and appearances suggested that he was Ghiscari, but since the company received many contracts in Slaver's Bay, no one thought twice of a Ghiscari in their midst. He had proved worthy with a sword and lash while mounted, which was enough to gain him admittance amongst the sellswords.</p><p>"<em>Brown Ben should not have announced his intentions so soon, before the armies clashed. Now they would know of the treachery</em>,"he thought,"<em>and they will prepare</em>."</p><p>Brown Ben's scouts returned, having failed to retrieve their quarry. They dismounted and reported to their captain, though he already knew their failure. Tyrion wondered if there were other spies still among them. There was sure to be, for the Yunkish would not have been senseless enough to trust in the skill and integrity of one man. But the company could not distrust every man that sought to join their ranks.</p><p>"<em>Bloody spy</em>," he heard Plumm curse, who stood next to him. The sellsword captains of the Second Sons stood on a raised dais among the assembled horsemen. Tyrion stood with them as well. One of their sergeants, Uhlan, had called the banners when the captain had announced his intention to join the dragon queen. Mormont was among the captains, though Tyrion supposed that the bear knight was only among them because of his companionship with the man who had promised them gold. They would earn that very gold this morning.</p><p>When the rider would reach the Yunkish camp, they were sure to know that their allies had betrayed them. They would prepare, and turn their trebuchets from the city to the closer camp that posed a threat. The Wicked Sister was not within their grasp, and if they were fortunate the Tattered Prince would had truthfully gone over to the dragon queen's side. There were still four of the Sisters, and he did not wish to be in the camp when they rained fire, and in this particular day, the corpses from men that died from the pale mare. </p><p>The Second Sons were only a company five hundred strong, so if the thousand-men legions were to march against them in open battle, they would fall. There was also no word from the sea battle that was sure to be occurring beyond the ridge. Though he found it queer that he looked forward to the arrival of Greyjoys of all men, he found himself wishing that they would swiftly sink the Qartheen blockade. It was apparent that they were no friends to the besiegers, and could aid their plight. It would seem that the galleys of Qarth were not famed for their lack of seamanship, as no tidings save the occasional crack that accompanied a sinking ship could be heard beyond the ridge that stood between the camp of the Second Sons and the mouth of the Skahazadan. The Qartheen galleys had led the Greyjoy ships into Slaver's Bay, and a bloody battle was sure to be roaring there. With their allies holding the Greyjoys in check, and still no word from the Targaryen host, the Yunkish legions could swiftly destroy their treasonous betrayers. </p><p>Tyrion did not wish to die just yet, not when his sweet sister yet lived, and she had yet to feel the caress of the demon monkey. </p><p>Not when he had not found Tysha.</p><p>"<em>Where do whores go?</em>" he thought. Lord Tywin must be laughing himself breathless in the Seven Hells, laughing at how his son would search the ends of the world for his whore. He laughed inwardly, as he pictured his father's face smile a genuine smile, let alone laugh.</p><p>It seemed that the grand Captain of the Second Sons knew of their precarious predicament also. Plumm retreated his gaze from the rapidly disappearing mound of dust that was the spy.</p><p>"We must strike quickly and fiercely," he said, and the assembled horsemen below looked in curiosity at their captains," before the Yunkish can look to the defence of their flank. Sow as much chaos as our mounts allow, so as when the old knight arrives, their force may easily break the enemy."</p><p>The other captains nodded, and Plumm continued,"If the slavers appear to have organized a defence, we will retreat and join the queen's host. And if the queen's host are to be defeated, we shall desert all our contracts and ride west to the Free Cities. Mero sullied our name there, but there is always gold for five hundred swords, and we will earn back our name."</p><p>Tyrion realized that Brown Ben is not playing to win. Tyrion and Ser Jorah forced his hand to fight for the dragon queen, and he must see it through to the end. But he is still merely playing to never lose, as he had in their many games of cyvasse.</p><p>"Will we have enough supplies for the journey?," Snatch asked," Our food stores were provided by the Yunkish." </p><p>"There are villages every four or five miles from here to Volantis and grasslands to graze our horses. The closest may already be foraged by the hosts near Meereen, but I trust that our supplies could sustain us enough until we can resupply our army. We could also ride east, along the Skahazadan to the Lhazareen, but this choice is less wise. We will have no lack of water, and last I heard, they need swords against the Dothraki."</p><p>Tyrion heard their words, and hoped that the gold in Casterly Rock would be as attractive a prize to lend their loyalty until the forces of the queen could achieve victory. He saw Ser Jorah tense his muscles, and upon his scarred face Tyrion saw anger.</p><p>"<em>He still cares for his queen</em>," he thought,"<em>even when she has taken to husband another man</em>." Tyrion pitied him, as he was sure that the queen did not have any lingering thoughts of him. There were bound to be more men that would vie for her hand, if the tales of her beauty were to be true, many of them more handsome, more gracious, and truer to the queen's heart. </p><p>"<em>Would Tysha think of me?</em>" Tyrion wondered,"<em>Her first husband who had loved her. Her husband who had sung songs with her in that sunlit cottage in those precious days. Did she marry again, to a better man than the stunted dwarf whose father had ordered her raped and sent away</em>."</p><p>"<em>Where do whores go?</em>" he thought again,"<em>to Meereen, whose slave girls was sure to be what Lord Tywin had thought of his son's first bride. Then again, would Lord Tywin's steward trouble to send his charge so far?"</em> He laughed aloud at himself, and Ser Jorah looked on in curiosity,"<em>What was he, the dwarf that he was, doing searching the strangest of places for his whore. Perhaps he'd die in the search, and drink a cup with his father in the Seven Hells</em>." </p><p>It appeared that the captains had reached a consensus, and they turned their heads to their army below their dais. Brown Ben took the lead as befitting his rank, and moved to the edge of the dais. Tyrion found himself inching forward as well until he stood by the stone's edge.</p><p>"<em>He's making to shout a speech</em>," Tyrion thought,"<em>though none will remember after the battle is over and the deaths are tallied. They never remembered how the dwarf had led the defence of King's Landing, how he had shouted for his men to fight for their homes, led that last sortie to delay the enemy until his father could arrive</em>." He had no desire to fight like these blooded sellswords. Those days were long past, and his half-cleaved off nose could attest to that.</p><p>"SECOND SONS," Brown Ben shouted. The east wind was blowing that morning, and they were facing westwards towards the Bay. His voice would carry to even the men who were furthest away. The banner of the Second Sons, the broken sword, flowed in the strong gusts. They proudly displayed the emblems of the treacherous company to the Yunkish that lay in the north.</p><p>"Men of the Free Cities," he continued," Men of the East. Men of Westeros. You have seen here today that we declare for the dragon queen, as was always our intent. And now we ride to assault the Yunkish camp, to sow chaos and buy our brothers time to assail the slavers. You ride here today under a common banner. A common cause, which is the belief that our glories are made not with our father's swords, but with our own. That is what we have fought for centuries, and it still is what we fight for this day. Raise your blades to oust the slavers from their golden thrones. Your arm may fall slow, and your horse may die from under you, but if you still draw breath, as long as the Second Son still lives, you shall win honors, glories, gold, and all that you seek as you take your kingdom from the ashes of the enemy. We were always dragon men, and so this day a dragon dawn rises to bless our blades." </p><p>He raised his sword, and the red sun glinted off the bronze casting. "A DRAGON DAWN," the men below chanted. Tyrion found himself shoved aside as a sellsword made to the forefront of the dais. He grasped in his hands a pole with a stream of black cloth at its end. He heaved the pole into the crevice beside the banner of the Second Sons, and by the fierce wind that blew, the red three-headed wyrm flew beside the broken sword in mockery of the slaver lords.</p><p>"<em>They are more clever than I had thought</em>,"Tyrion chuckled inwardly,"<em>They knew that they might turn their cloak yet again</em>."</p><p>"FOR THE QUEEN,"he heard Plumm shout, and Tyrion directed his gaze from the flowing banners to the triumphant air of the sellswords below.</p><p>"FOR THE QUEEN," he heard the Second Sons echo in answer, their cheers and thundering of their spears shaking the very earth.</p><p>Tyrion suddenly saw, far away in the tents of the enemy, a host flying dragon banners thundering into the Yunkish camp. He saw the trebuchet that was named the Harpy's Daughter burned by the dragon men's torches. A portion of their allies, which he could see were led by a man in a white cloak, detached from battle and retreated. Another portion continued to set fire to the tents that they encountered, causing chaos amongst the ranks of the Yunkish legions.</p><p>"Ser Barristan had made his move," he heard the bear knight growl,"Grey Worm is forming his shield wall at this very moment. The Second Sons should seek at this time to strike, to aid Ser Barristan's van and cause chaos until the heavy horse and the Targaryen host can return."</p><p>Plumm seemed to think the same, as he moved to depart the dais and mount his horse, his captains following. Before the sellswords descended the stairs, Plumm turned to Ser Jorah," I need you to find a swift horse, and bring this message to Ser Barristan. We are to strike the Yunkish, but I fear that they may still think of us as enemies. Tell him that we are his allies, and also that he should send his horse again to aid in our attack."</p><p>"Ser Barristan still thinks of me as a criminal," Ser Jorah stated.</p><p>"Who else may I send?" Plumm countered," You and the dwarf are the only men that they would not shoot on sight, and I cannot send him."</p><p>Ser Jorah hesitated, and then nodded.</p><p>"<em>He still thinks to win his queen</em>," Tyrion thought,"<em>He wishes to be the man that would be seen to turn the Second Sons to fight for the dragon. He wants to redeem himself in the queen's favor. I could begrudge them that deed, though I do not think that any feat would win Ser Jorah the queen's love. Ser Jorah had as much of a chance to bed the queen as I do</em>." </p><p>However, this made an opportunity that could not be missed. He was of a mind to saddle onto Ser Jorah's ride. Tyrion did not wish to fight in another battle, and he also did not wish to be in the camp of the traitorous sellsword company if the Second Sons lost their battle. He could not ride his own horse, as the saddles of the Sons were not fitted for a dwarf. Penny would remain still in the camp, but Ser Jorah could not take them both.</p><p>He inwardly sighed. There was not like to be another chance to journey to Meereen, so he could not abandon this one. He needed to abandon Penny, but he would win the dragon queen's trust and serve her loyally, and he would be able to seek vengeance. When he was Lord of Casterly Rock, perhaps he could find Tysha again.  </p><p>Tyrion knew that he needed to be in Meereen if any of his designs could be realized. </p><p>"<em>You cannot play the game of thrones on a battlefield</em>," he thought,"<em>You play the game of swords instead, a game that is as clear as glass, but no less dangerous. A game that Jaime played well, but which rules I never knew how to follow</em>."</p><p>As the captains descended the stairs and moved to their mounts, riding away to command their respective companies, he turned to Ser Jorah. There was still a few men in the camp that were assigned to guard it, the paymaster Tybero Istarion among them, but he knew that Ser Jorah's blade could easily cut through them should they oppose his departure once the Second Sons leave.</p><p>"Ser Jorah," he spoke, owing to the fact that the attention of the other men on the dais were directed towards the horsemen," I would hope that your horse could carry two men, as I wish to ride with you and enter the city. A dwarf does not weigh much, so I am not like to slow you down and delay your mission."</p><p>The bear knight glared at him as he had expected,"Why should I do that?"</p><p>Tyrion chuckled,"Well, do you wish to win back the favor of your little queen? Know that you were banished, and if you return with no deeds of redemption, Ser Barristan's not like to trust your word. Aut think. If you brought the queen a Lannister, and won her the swords of the Second Sons, what would the queen think of you then? I would be glad to confirm that tale should you bring me as Plumm is subject to my gold. And what would the queen think of you had you returned alone with no proof of deeds except your own word which they do not trust."</p><p>He smiled as he saw Ser Jorah's angered expression, and his eyes which were sure to be thinking of the many ways he would like to kill Tyrion. He finally relented, and spoke,"We will leave soon, then, after the Second Sons have departed. I do not think they would take kindly to your escape."</p><p>Tyrion nodded, and turned from the knight as if the conversation never happened. </p><p>Plumm, Ulhan, and Snatch were riding amongst the assembled men, organizing their ranks. Three lines of horsemen issued from the camp, riding to assault the slavers. Tyrion soon saw only the mounds of dust that rose at the tail end of their hosts.</p><p>He felt a hand grasp his shoulder, and was led from the dais by Ser Jorah. Ser Jorah led him to the stables, where he picked out a brown-haired destrier. The knight swung onto the saddle, and pulled Tyrion up behind him. As they rode away, the Second Sons began to note their departure. However, their best riders had already left in the attack, and only the inexperienced or injured remained to guard the camp. Ser Jorah was a skilled horseman as well, and with his picked swift steed he soon outdistanced his pursuit.</p><p>"<em>The Second Sons are wasting their time</em>," Tyrion thought,"<em>When I lord over the city, my debts would still stand to them. It is too late to turn their cloak again anyways if they think otherwise. They will be forced to fight for the dragon queen, as the Yunkish would never trust them again."</em></p><p>The seas still remained silent, as the Ironborn and Qartheen were sure to still be battling endlessly with their ships. </p><p>Ser Jorah shielded most of the wind that came at them, but Tyrion still felt the cool breeze that came with relief from the scorching sun. He was still wearing the same thin cloak as he had in Daznak's Pit, and the heat was stifling even so. It was even worse for Ser Jorah in his armor. </p><p>He looked to the northeast to the hill where Ser Barristan's host would be sure to appear. None did, however, and he saw only two riders that were travelling to the Yunkish camp.</p><p>"<em>No</em>," he thought,"<em>the slavers are delaying Ser Barristan with messengers. They must strike now, elsewise the Second Sons were doomed. Ser Jorah must make the journey.</em>" Their horse's hooves thundered east, and he could see the Meereenese walls in the distance. He huddled himself against Ser Jorah's cloak, and pretended that he was once again a boy, huddling against his brother's back as they rode in the green fields outside Casterly Rock.</p><p>As much as he despised Jaime now, he still thought of those days fondly, as he wished to escape his stunted body and life for a moment.</p><p>So consumed was he in his thoughts that he almost did not notice the slight difference in the air before them. They had come to a patch of rocks, beyond of which were the sands that would lead to the walls of Meereen. They had outdistanced any chance of pursuit from the Yunkish or the Second Sons, and he had temporarily let down his guard.</p><p>The wire was as grey as the rocks, but his sight could not fail. It appeared that Ser Jorah did not know the danger, as he continued to forge ahead, desperate to reach the walls of Meereen that lay so close.</p><p>"STOP,"Tyrion called, his voice dismembered by the swift currents of wind that accompanied their ride. It was too late, as Ser Jorah's horse was too swift. The destrier's front legs were swept from under the mount's body, and both riders were thrown from its saddle. </p><p>Rolling to a stop and attempting to gather himself, Tyrion rose to a dozen Ghiscari spears at his throat.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. THE OLD KNIGHT</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>"When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin, and the world holds its breath to see how it lands." </em>Those had been the words of King Jaehaerys. Genius and madness were the two sides of that coin. "<em>It was all a matter of perspective</em>," the king had told him. What is common in all Targaryens is the ambition to accomplish great works, and to be worthy of remembrance. Succeed, and you are called a genius. Fail to succeed, and you called mad for attempting an impossible task.</p><p>Was Daeron the Young Dragon mad when he thought he could conquer Dorne with swords, or was it a catastrophic failure of an attempt to surpass his ancestors. The young king and his successors had been lucky that hearts of their vassals had grown complacent over the centuries. Had Jaehaerys the Wise attempted the same, his Lord Paramounts would have overthrown him in an instant, dragons or not. If Daeron had succeeded, though, he may have been called a military genius despite losing sixty thousand men. No man could ever claim otherwise, for who else had conquered Dorne. Robert Baratheon was made of the same mettle, yet men call him a military prodigy because the Rebellion won the war. He lost the only true battle that he fought, yet men forgot all that because he became king.</p><p>"<em>When the maesters debate in the future of who was the greatest Targaryen king</em>," the king had said,"<em>fools would say Aegon the Conqueror. Fools would say Jaehaerys the Wise. Fools would say my father Aegon, the fifth of his name, who the kingdoms call the Unlikely. Fools would say me, perhaps, if I continue to rule as I am. The wise would say Maegor, the man who had pacified the kingdoms with that his father conquered with blood and ash and cemented my family's rule for centuries. It is much easier to conquer a kingdom than to hold it. Greatness is not goodness, otherwise every farmer could be called great, for they feed the kingdoms. Cruel as he was, he was the greatest, and greatness is the conquering of feats, for good or ill. Greatness is the madness in my blood, and I have suppressed it. Maegor did not, nor did Daeron the Young Dragon, my grandfather Maekar, Baelor who was called Breakspear, Aemon the Dragonknight, Bloodraven and Bittersteel, all the Blackfyres, and even my wise father in those last moments at Summerhall</em>."</p><p>Were the wondrous innovations of King Aerys the seeds of madness or genius? Barristan found that this pattern did not occur just within the blood of the dragonlords. All the grand families of Westeros seem to harbor the same desire for dominance. Had any of them become king, men would find other causes to blame for the king's supposed madness.</p><p>Tidings from Westeros have had difficulty penetrating the blockade, but multiple rumors confirmed the same happenings. When maesters in the future write of the Young Wolf, would they write of the genius that led his army to victory against dire odds, or will they write of the mad wolf who thought he could march against the south.</p><p>King Jaehaerys had been the most worthy king he had served, and his words rang true in his ears to this day. As a kingsguard, he was sworn to serve, not judge, as the White Bull's words resounded, but he found himself judging the worth of his kings anyway. He had wished Rhaegar on the Iron Throne in the stead of his mad father, and he had followed his worthy prince to his death at the Trident.</p><p>And here he was now, serving Rhaegar's sister. He did not know how her coin will land. She had great potential. That in itself was true, for either side of the coin.</p><p>"<em>The Breaker of Shackles</em>," Barristan thought,"<em>That same desire for greatness that my king warned of</em> <em>of</em>."</p><p>He shook his head to dispel the thoughts. Now was not the time for pondering philosophies, as the slavers's force would soon emerge from the horizon and approach the outnumbered host of his own men. Their first sally had been successful, and the Harpy's Daughter lay in smoldering ruins, but he had retreated his horse to the city walls in case the Yunkish brought their legions forward.</p><p>He sincerely hoped that the young queen would become worthy of his labours. He had put his trust and service in the young ruler, as he had in Rhaegar decades before, as she was Rhaegar's sister.</p><p>Honour and foolishness were two sides of the same coin as well. That seemed true for more instances of his life than he would have liked.</p><p>Aerys II was a terrible king, yet honour demanded that he protect him. Would Jaime Lannister really be at fault for choosing reason over honour at that last moment. If any of the Kingsguard to do what the Kingslayer did before the war, perhaps Prince Rhaegar would have ascended the throne, and the realm may be better. Honour, a foolish matter, yet that is what men like himself live for, for it is righteous.</p><p>He stared down at what will become the enemy lines amidst the desert sun. The scorching heat felt familiar, and he was at the Stepstones again, during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. A young man he was then, riding with other young men, many old or dead now. Tywin Lannister, Brynden Tully, and so many others whose blood had run hot with ambitions, glory, and pride. So many were the young knights that were there with the Royal Army. There had been peace for near a decade, ample time for the youngsters who had not seen the horrors of their ancestors to hunger for war yet again. That same kind of man he was then, naïve and foolish in the ways of the world. He had thought only of glory on the battlefield and the chance to slay enemy knights like the heroes of the songs of old. When the old king offered him a place on the Kingsguard after the battle, he had never again felt the ecstasy of the honor of such a position.</p><p>Now here he was again, defending another Targaryen from men who sought to usurp their throne. He was old now, the pride of youth stripped away. The mocking moniker "Barristan the Old" began to appear more reasonable. This will be his last war, he realized, the last queen he will serve, and quite likely his last battle.</p><p>He would be joining his king soon, he knew, but not yet. He will not rest until he had defeated the enemies of the queen he chose to follow.</p><p>He looked off into the distance, where Goghor and his horse had already begun their raid on the slaver's camp in concurrence with their sally. While his horse had returned, theirs would not. He heard their screams and shadows fade in the light of the red dawn. A dragon dawn, and he prayed that it would lend strength to the men that marched under its banner.</p><p>They would fall, ultimately. Of that, Barristan was certain. The best that Barristan could hope was that Goghor's horse would be able to distract their host for as long as Grey Worm's Unsullied needed to form their shield wall.</p><p>He looked back at the host that were assembling near the gate. He estimated that a tenth have filed out.</p><p>"<em>Too slow</em>," he thought,"<em>Soon, the slaver horse will come thundering down the sands, and it will be my charge to fend them off</em>." Barristan's and the Widower's horse lay already arrayed in formation, ready to brace any assault. The Widower commanded the right flank, Jokin the left, and Barristan the center. Their horse were a motley collection of Dothraki and sellswords. His fellow commanders lay several hundred meters in either direction. He had little doubt that their cavalry's valor were true, though he feared that they could match any force that the slaver's would send. Sellswords were also fickle. If the battle turned in their favor, they would fight to the end. If it did not, then their best hope was that they were not to join the enemy. He did not know what side the sellswords would turn when the armies clashed. Only the Dothraki were unquestionably loyal, but Rakharo's men were too little.</p><p><em>"There</em> <em>again</em>," he thought,"<em>preparing for defeat before the battle had</em> <em>begun</em>." He prayed again to the Warrior to lend strength to the arms of Goghor and his men, so that they may fight all the while longer.</p><p>Strangely, the barrage of carcasses had stopped, which had persisted relentless in the night. He did not know the cause for their error, but he was all the more grateful for it. There men feared the pale mare, and he could see already some of the tension dissipate along the ranks of their men.</p><p>He looked back yet again after another quarter of an hour passed. A third of the Unsullied had filed outside the gates. The freedmen companies had also began to join in their ranks as the men outside bolstered in number.</p><p>"<em>And still</em>," Barristan thought,"<em>the slaver horse has not come. Do I dare to hope that Goghor and his men have succeeded?"</em></p><p>There was a plateau of land between his host and the slaver camp, so he could not see any happenings that may have occurred.</p><p>"<em>Do I dare send a scout</em>," he considered. Then, he glanced back at the tall and stout walls of Meereen. A man there could see far and wide, and perhaps into the Yunkish camp. As if in answer, the line from the city halted abruptly as a rider moved in their midst.</p><p>"Ser Barristan," the rider called, waving his arms,"I have urgent tidings."</p><p>He instructed his squire the Red Lamb to watch for the enemy, and blow the commanding horn if the enemy were to appear. Then, Barristan made his way through the throng of his cavalry to meet the messenger. He met the messenger near the back of his line of horses, his own white steed braying in greeting of his fellows.</p><p>"What do you wish to report?" his words were quick and nervous.</p><p>The messenger caught his breath, and spoke," Master Skahaz bid me to tell you of the reports from the walls. They saw General Goghor's men enter the Yunkish camp. They cut down many men, and last we saw them, they were almost through to the portion of the camp where the slaves were kept."</p><p>"And," Barristan said, his breath a thin flicker of smoke,"Have you seen them them fall?"</p><p>The messenger shook his head," We saw the Yunkish array their heavy horse, like you predicted, but then the dust of their hosts arose around their camp and obscured our vision. We could not see any more."</p><p>The knight nodded,"Very well, I thank you for the tidings. You are dismissed."</p><p>"Wait," he called, and Barristan turned back,"the Qartheen galleys that formed the blockade along the Skahazadan have departed. They have led the kraken ships into the Bay, and the ridge blocked our view."</p><p>"<em>Curious</em>," Barristan thought," <em>But I cannot deal with the matter now. There is much else that demands my attention</em>."</p><p>The messenger left, and Barristan rode back to the forefront of his cavalry.</p><p>"Ser," the Red Lamb called,"It appears that the slavers have raised a peace banner. They wish to parley."</p><p>"<em>A parley</em>." Barristan thought,"<em>What could they wish to gain from negotiations that have already proven to be unfruitful. The messenger had just told that they were arraying their heavy hold superior numbers and men, and Meereen itself is in tatters. Why would they wish to barter when they hold the sword.</em>" He had already found it strange that the slaver host did not appear to waylay them as they emerged from the city gates. That was their best chance at destroying Barristan's host. "<em>They play a card that I cannot guess</em>," Barristan thought,"<em>I must judge my</em> <em>plans accordingly.</em>"</p><p>"Tell Grey Worm," he called to his other squire Tumco Lho," that the plan is still in effect. Tell him to array the spears quicker. I do not care if some men drop their shields or spears."</p><p>"<em>Could this be a trick</em>," he thought,"<em>to lure me into the open to slay the enemy commander. Or perhaps deception meant to lure us into complacency, so as to strike with their horse when our defences weaken. I would not put it past the slavers. A flag of peace is as good as a spare rag in true war. It would not be of much profit, though. The Widower and Jokin</em> <em>have their orders. If anything, the slavers are delaying the best chance of assault on our forces while they are in the process of being allayed outside the city walls. No, that is not likely. Perhaps they are facing the same plight from the bloody flux, and wish to sign a temporary truce. Camps are as susceptible to pestilence as cities. If so, then it is the ideal moment to strike."</em></p><p>The enemy riders, bearing a white banner, rode into range of the archers on Meereen's walls. He signaled for his archers to relax their bowstrings. The lead rider, a Yunkish youth sitting upon a brown courser, trotted up to him. The man, or boy, he may have called him, looked barely older than sixteen. The same age of which he slew Maelys Blackfyre. He knew never to underestimate opponents, especially those who seemed young and inexperienced. It was not uncommon that old warriors tried at war would be bested by a young knight solely because he judged a man's worth by his age.</p><p>The young man before him had a comely enough face, brown-skinned and framed by jet-black hair. He wore golden Yunkish mail, which reflected brightly the light of the rising sun. His helm was dome-shaped, enameled with wings that Barristan supposed were of the Harpy protruding from either side. His armor suggested that he were Yunkish nobility, though he doubted that the proud slaver lords would send a lowborn to deal on their behalf.</p><p>"I present to you Khrazdan mo Raddaq, the eighth of that noble name, master of the Third Yunkish legion,"the other rider, a plain-looking herald wearing nothing other than roughspun cloth, announced,"Who here is of authority to treat with Master Raddaq?"</p><p>"Ser Barristan Selmy," Red Lamb answered in a deep voice, gesturing to the old knight in the white cloak,"Kingsguard and Lord Regent to her Grace Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Queen of Meereen." He did not repeat the stream of the queen's titles, most likely because he could not remember them, and Barristan was grateful, as he wished no delay.</p><p>The young master cleared his throat, his eyes darting between the assembled armies before him and Barristan. The lad appeared to have genuine fear. Barristan pitied the boy. His father may have have been one of the masters who died during his queen's wars, burdening the boy with a responsibility and an army that he did not yet know how to master.</p><p>"<em>Too many have died</em>," Barristan thought," <em>and to what purpose, freedom that the slaves themselves do not want. As King Jaehaerys once told: 'The men who fight on the unjust side are the most calamitous. They were the same as their foes, men that knew their duty and served their lords</em><em>. Yet the names of their foes will be the ones that their children shall tell in the hearths of peace. Their names shall be trodden in the dirt, though they could have been just as valiant.' That was the cause that I attempted to claim when I abandoned King Aerys and the boy Joffrey, for their wars would ultimately end in tragedy. And here I see a product of another tragedy, of the cause that I saw was honourable, and he cannot think to be proud of the man who reared him. Why should we continue this folly?</em>"</p><p>The slavers may sent him because he was disposable and would be useless as a bargaining tool for Barristan. That may also explain the lack of an escort. The Pit had proved to them that his army supposedly did not respect the laws of emissaries and guest right. He silently grimaced at the thought. He was no Frey.</p><p>"Speak, please,"Barristan asked," What is the purpose of your peace banner?"</p><p>"The young master," the herald began, "on behalf of our commanders, wished to-,"</p><p>Ser Barristan held up a hand, and the herald stopped abruptly.</p><p>"I would like the young master to tell me himself his cause for meeting me." he said calmly.</p><p>The young man stared at him, took a deep breath, and said very quickly:"My commanders wish me to inform Master Selmy of their well-wishes. They invite you to a neutral location to negotiate a peace settlement to our current strife. Each party must bring ten men in addition to the envoy, no more and no less. If you honor the terms of the peace banner, we shall as well. Our masters do not hope for needless bloodshed when a peace can be found."</p><p>"Master Raddaq," Barristan replied," Can you repeat what you said, slower this time."</p><p>The young man took another deep breath, and said more evenly," The masters wish me to inform you that they invite you to a neutral location to negotiate a peace treaty to our current conflict. Each party is to bring ten additional soldiers in addition to their diplomatic envoy."</p><p>Barristan nodded,"Very well."</p><p>"<em>I could deny the proposal</em>," he thought,"<em>and no man would fault me for it. But if there is any chance to end this without further bloodshed and save countless lives, I will take it</em>. <em>A war in Slaver's Bay, even a victory, would require time, time of which the lions that ruled Westeros could lick their wounds.</em>" He chose to follow the queen because he saw the same potential he had seen in Rhaegar to become an honourable and just ruler for the Seven Kingdoms. Her fight was there, not here.</p><p>That was the queen's true goal, in the end, to reclaim her family's throne. He had once counseled the queen to accept Xaro Xhoan Daxos's proposal. His cause for leaving Westeros was to find a ruler suitable to be worthy of his sword. The boy Joffrey was both a monster and a fool. His brother Tommen was a boy, and susceptible to the ill counsel of his mother and uncle.</p><p>"<em>Or father</em>," he thought,"<em>I would not put it past him</em>." He had served them loyally, and they had repaid him with the disgrace of being dismissed from the ranks of the Kingsguard. Would he, Barristan the Bold, be remembered in the White Book among oathbreakers such as the like of the Kingslayer Jaime Lannister. He swore from that day that he would topple the lion from his throne. His question was who to serve.</p><p>Robb Stark, while promising, was young and subject to a boy's heart. Bound to make mistakes, and he did not care about the south, only fighting for his own kingdom. Trusting a young man to hold his temper was like trusting an army to not pillage. The basest nature would always shine through. It was a gamble he was not willing to take.</p><p>Renly, while charismatic and popular, entered his consideration but was quickly dismissed. His term as Master of Laws proved him to be incompetent, allowing for corruption in the city to become rampant. Barristan would not be doing the realm a favor by supporting his unrighteous claim.</p><p>There was one more. Stannis, a hard man, and a just man. A tried battle commander as well. He was rigid to a fault, though, and unlikely to attract men to his cause. However, if the rumours were to be believed, Stannis would be King Robert's rightful heir. His cause was righteous, and for a time Barristan considered joining his host. Then, a magister named Illyrio Mopatis contacted him, and told him of the Targaryen who had birthed three dragons in the east, and he found a claim and cause more honourable to serve.</p><p>"<em>My goal</em>," he thought,"<em>was always to crown Queen Daenerys on the Iron Throne, to do what I failed to do with Rhaegar. If I tarry here in Meereen, only the Seven know when we will receive another chance to conquer Westeros. Given the current state of the Seven Kingdoms, it was an opportunity that may not be riper</em>."</p><p>"<em>The White Bull</em>," he thought,"<em>I will have to neglect your wisdom for the moment. I must judge my queen, and assume that she abides my peace when she returns</em>."</p><p>He gestured for Tumco Lho to bring him the map of Meereen and its surrounding landscape. he gradually unrolled the map and addressed a location with his finger. "I shall agree to your commander's invitation,"he said,"There, what the Valyrians called Valaena's Hill, or the Skull of Ghis in Ghiscari tradition. It is of equal distance between the city and your camp. The area around it is relatively open, thus no possibility of one party breaking their word and preparing an ambush. We may conduct our negotiations there. Please array this to your superiors."</p><p>The young man nodded, looking relieved,"You have my thanks, Master Selmy, I shall relay your request to my commanders. Farewell."</p><p>"Farewell, Master Raddaq," Barristan replied.</p><p>The young man turned his courser around, his herald following, and trotted back towards the enemy camp.</p><p>He watched the boy leave, and traced his gaze to his chosen land. This field had shed blood long ago, long before Meereen, the Seven Kingdoms, and perhaps even House Selmy. The great armies of the Valyrian Freehold and the Empire of Ghis clashed here, a battle of such magnitude that none after ever surpassed it in glory and tragedy. The Freehold, despite their dragons, were losing the battle. He did not know what sorcery the Ghiscari cast in order to combat dragonflame, yet it was clearly of use. Given the return of the beasts, he and the queen's advisers have developed numerous methods to check dragons should they be turned on the queen, though none were tried in success. The Freehold had staked its entire force, thereby gambling their empire, upon the outcome of the battle. At its most dire moment, an ancestor of his queen, Valaena Targaryen, led a counter-assault atop her dragon Pyrax from that very hill, which turned the tide. The Valyrians honoured her by naming the hill Valaena's hill, while the Ghiscari, ruing that day, called it the Skull of Ghis,a reminder of the hour when the Ghiscari legionary fell. The young queen had told him the story eagerly several times.</p><p>He hoped that the gods would grant him the strength to defeat his enemies like the dragonlords of old. He hoped the victorious spirits of the dragonlords would have blessed the land. He normally prayed only to the Warrior for strength, but now he found himself praying also to the crone for wisdom, wisdom to achieve victory, even better a victory without bloodshed. Barristan turned to address Red Lamb,"Go back to the city. Tell the Shavepate to find the seneschal Reznakh mo Reznakh and bring him to me." He turned again to address his personal herald," Go to the commanders and tell them that I wish to participate in negotiation with the enemy. If it by any chance goes poorly and I am killed or incapacitated, the command shall pass to the Widower and they are to heed his orders. Also, choose the best men you can find to accompany me. I trust that you have heard the numbers." The herald nodded, murmured an agreement, and rode off.</p><p>Suddenly, a screech pierced the morning air. The old knight looked up, and there, flying majestically, was Viserion. His cream-and-gold scales blending with the sunlight created an astonishing sight. A pity none could control them, though he was not sure if they should be tamed. Dragons, a majestic weapon, but also destructive. If King Aerys had had dragons, half of Westeros would have been ash. Its power is mortifying, and one could easily lose mastery of the beast. But then again, who is worthy or even capable of taming dragons. The queen was the first in centuries to birth dragons, and yet even she could not control them. That fool of a boy, Quentyn Martell, tried to master a dragon. He thought that it would make him worthy of the queen's love and secure her armies for Dorne. The Martell boy was dead, burned by the beasts that he tried to tame. What is worth the price of these creatures?</p><p>He thought back again to their queer proposal."<em>Why would they seek to negotiate? That I cannot fathom."</em></p><p>If Rhaegal and Viserion were controlled by his army, it may be the reason. Yet it was clear that the dragons fly beholden to no man.</p><p>"Ser, if I may have a word?" his student Larraq spoke to him.</p><p>He turned to look at hiis student," Yes, what is it that you wish to to say."</p><p>"I believe," Larraq responded," that it is too dangerous for you, our commander, to be near the enemy. Send Commander Grey Worm, the Shavepate, or one of us squires to act in your place in case danger erupts. They would be sensible enough to not provoke conflict unlike our other captains. Send the King of Meereen, for the Harpy's sake. It should be his duty to defend his city. Just not you."</p><p>"I understand your grievances," Barristan responded," but it is I who received their messenger, I who agreed to the talks, thus I am honor-bound to see this, even if it is a folly, to the end. That is a lesson of honour that I have yet to teach you. Your word must be as good as your sword."</p><p>Larraq nodded and turned back.</p><p>Judging by the sun's ascent in the sky, Barristan estimated that an hour had passed before Red Lamb with the seneschal and a sizable retinue. Tumco Lho returned with Grey Worm's reply.</p><p>His men lay ever prepared for a Yunkish onslaught that never came. Grey Worm's men were ever bolstered more. He estimated that nine thousand had come beyond the gates, and only a tenth still remained to be arrayed.</p><p>"<em>What befell the Yunkish camp</em>," he wondered. The flurry of corpses that had ceased never resumed. It was almost as if the trebuchets themselves were destroyed. He still did not dare send anyone forward to spy upon the Yunkish camp. Messengers from the Shavepate came regularly, yet even on the city walls of Meereen, what occurred could still not be seen.</p><p>His herald had also returned with the men he required as well as messages from the commanders, with the Widower in accompaniment.</p><p>"They all plead for you to reconsider, Ser," the herald said, " but if you must, they will look to the Widower if by any chance your talks go poorly."</p><p>"Better if you did not go at all." the Widower called," Our infantry has nearly all been arrayed, and still the slavers have not attacked. There must be infighting. Their peace banner means that this is our best chance to launch an assualt. Their flag was a clear sign of their weakness. You should have ordered us to attack with our horse when they showed it. Your forbearance bought them a precious hour to organize their ranks."</p><p>Barristan shook his head, silencing the Stormcrow commander, as far in the distance, he could spy two riders approaching. "<em>Khrazdan mo Raddaq and his herald have come to declare their commanders' answer</em>." Barristan thought.</p><p>After the introductions, Khrazdan declared,"My commanders agree to your chosen location, Master Selmy. They propose that we meet at noon. Is that to your convenience?"</p><p>"It is," Barristan said, "Tell your commanders. We shall meet at noon on Valaena's Hill."</p><p>Master Raddaq nodded," Then it shall be as you say. Farewell. Our masters look forward to meeting you soon."</p><p>"Farewell," Barristan replied.</p><p>For the second time that day, the young master turned to depart.</p><p>"Wait," a voice called.</p><p>The young man turned his head to see the blade drawn from the Widower's sheath. He reached for his sword, but the Widower's horse was quicker. A streak of blood painted the sands near the feet of Barristan's horse. The youngster fell forward, clutching the wound in his throat that oozed dark blood. The Widower brought his blade up and made a savage cut, and the master's head fell onto the sand. The Widower dismounted, his hand sheathing his bloodied sword. He picked up the severed head, and made to give it to the herald whose mouth lay agape.</p><p>"Are these the sort of men that command your armies, whimpering children and weaklings? No wonder they cannot fight my sword, and how do they hope to stand against my axe? Tell your masters," he said,"that we have rejected your offer. The men of the dragon do not surrender easily."</p><p>With trembling arms, the herald took the head, then dropped it. He quickly gathered his reins, and turned his horse in the direction of his camp. His horse galloped quickly away in the wake of the Widower's booming laughter.</p><p>Anger rose within Barristan's heart. It was the greatest dishonor to slaughter an envoy. Yet he needed the Widower and the Stormcrows, and he could not punish him now. The Widower looked at him expectantly, his eyes a mirror of Daario Naharis. Barristan silently cursed him, as he left him no choice. He swung his horse around, and saw that the Unsullied had their spears fully arrayed.</p><p>"Return to your company," Barristan told the Widower. He nodded, smiling devilishly, and rode off.</p><p>Barristan returned to his squire's side at the forefront of the host. He waited, and saw that the Widower had returned to his command. He turned back to look at Grey Worm's men. The Unsullied had formed their shield wall, their ranks flanked by the strength of the freedmen companies. This shall not be another Astapor.</p><p>He turned to look his squire Red Lamb in the eye. He saw there the fear that he had once saw in the eyes of his fellow knights the first time they had witnessed true slaughter at the Stepstones. But he also saw there eagerness, his hand twitching to grasp the hilt of his sword that he fought with so ferociously.</p><p>"Sound the horn."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. THE CROWNLESS QUEEN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Kneel," the Giantslayer's voice declared, booming throughout the hovels of the crofters' village.</p><p>They did not. The mercenary captains were all proud men of the Free City of Braavos. Asha has once raided a Braavosi galley, when the Black Wind was still hers to command. Even under the threat of her axe, the black and grey-coated captains of the ship did not kneel or beg for mercy. They spurned her offer of surrender, and she had thrown them into the sea. </p><p>Stannis had little patience for their pride. Dark shadows loomed under his eyes. His skin was taut from the countless days that he lay awake at night. Last night's tidings weighed heavily on his mind, and he was not of a mind of forgiveness. He nodded to the Giantslayer, his eyes cruel and cold. "<em> A crown </em> ," Asha thought," <em> of red and gold sat upon the southern king's brow. The colours of fire and light. A cruel irony played by his gods, I suppose, as neither can be found in this dark morning that is his fate </em>."</p><p>With each day that they passed, the hearts of the captains grew wearier. Her brother's warnings had first brewed a storm of anxiety in their minds, as they thought that battle was approaching. They waited, day after day, for the blow that never fell. Stannis never dared to order a march against Winterfell, as he was loath to part with his defenses by the lake when there were the possibility of a Bolton attack. It was not a surprise that the sellsword captains grew tired from waiting without fruit, their supplies dwindling for every day that passed, and turned their cloak. </p><p>Stannis's face grew ever stonier. She feared for Theon, as she had prayed that Stannis would heed her words, abide by the Old Way of the North and not use the flame. It was the little she could do for her brother. Looking at his furrowed brow, it would seem that even those efforts were in failure. "<em>Mother </em> ," she thought," <em> You wished me to bring Theon home, to see your son one last time. I cannot even save him from his manner of death, much less save his life. Had he not killed those boys, perhaps I could still have a chance, but Stannis is cold and just</em>."</p><p>The captains had gathered in the town square of the crofter's village. The King's Men had seized the captains in secret, as they had not wished to provoke a revolt. Asha did not know what had prevailed in their minds to have cause to linger after they had turned their cloak. The town square lay in the camps of the northmen, who viewed the sellswords as squint-eyed as they saw the southerners and Asha herself. She also did not know why Stannis trusted the northmen more than he did his own.</p><p>Her captor had dragged her here as well. She no longer had to wear a chain, but a sword was kept at her side at all times of the day. The soldier was no man that she knew, his face weathered and unremarkable. He wore a surcoat bearing the flaming heart of Stannis's men, though the fabric had faded to a faint imprint. She could scarce make out the stag's antlers, blurred it was with the flame.</p><p>The Giantslayer and the King's Men struck the bound captains, forcing them to their knees. Ser Godry pulled a dirk from his belt and pressed it to his prisoner's throat. The other King's Men did the same.</p><p>"My King Stannis," one of the sellsword captains,"You are threatening loyal men. I do not know how these rumors reached you, but I swear, it is the treachery of Bolton spies that seek to divide our armies' strength."</p><p>"Twenty men," Stannis's voice was soft and tired but hard as iron, then his composure broke and boomed,"Twenty men. How many of my tents went up in flame last night, and this morning we found only the tracks of no more than twenty men that led into our camp's flank. Tell me, my lords, where were my sentries? Yours were the men that were on duty last night."</p><p>"Your grace," the same man responded, his voice even, though timely cracking from the dirk that drew blood as he spoke," Our men were hard-pressed to see in the snowstorm, much less patrol, and our men do not know the land and its secrets. Any man could have missed a small party."</p><p>Stannis remained unconvinced,"A snowstorm? Tell me, how did the Boltons torch your tents during a snowstorm? And when the first tent went up in flame, your men thought it wise to not intervene? It was my folly to trust your men with our provisions. If it were not for Lady Mormont and her men, who journeyed from the other end of the village to extinguish the fire, I fear that more of our provisions would be lost.to the raid."</p><p>The captain fell silent, his mouth searching for words, and Stannis spat:"You should have fled with your Bolton masters when you had the chance, yet you stayed behind, plotting future treasons. You are all condemned. Do you have anything to speak of on your behalf?"</p><p>The square fell silent except for the occasional flickering of torches and whistling of wind. Asha knew that mutiny on a ship was a captain's greatest fear. When one sails into a storm, or encounters an enemy fleet, a captain would know what to fear, and trust amongst a ship may save the vessel. But mutiny, a knife in the dark, a betrayal of the sacred trust that keeps a ship together in crisis, is the deadliest threat. The Black Wind was blessed by the Drowned God, and so never faced a mutiny. She had heard tales of mutinies on other ships. The men upon the Iron Victory had once tried to overthrow her nuncle Victarion once when he dared to sail as south as south goes in his youthful years. They failed, and her nuncle drowned each slowly. They were lucky that her nuncle had given them a proper death. When he had returned to Pyke, he had made it a duty to tell her father the story, with young Asha in earshot. And the less that could be said about the mutinies on the Silence, the better. Some say that her mad nuncle Euron had cut out his crew's tongues so that they could not plot further treasons. A king cannot stomach betrayal more than a captain.</p><p>"<em>It's a pity </em> ,"she thought," <em> that they were plagued with so many traitors. First the Karstarks, then the sellswords. It seemed that the host will break before it met the enemy </em>." The enemy host never came, perhaps waiting for Stannis's army to tear itself apart. She did not believe her brother was lying, but by some miracle or curse, the Boltons never fell upon them. Perhaps Bolton did not blunder as Stannis had predicted, and had decided to evaluate his plans. The Lord of Winterfell planned to starve them out. It was very well working. Their supplies were dwindling, as after the debacle last night, the cooks had told Stannis they, if the host rationed their remaining food, could provide for at most two more weeks. Water was not an issue, as various streams and even snow could be used for replenishment. But without food, the campaign is doomed. Stannis would be forced to assail the enemy, and all Bolton needed to do was sit in his castle. Winterfell was not Deepwood Motte, and Bolton had thousands more men than Asha had. </p><p>If Stannis failed, she did not know where she could flee. The south and the west were closed to her. She did not know if her ships at Sea Dragon Point still stood. Even if they did, she did not have a crew. She gazed at her ironborn companions that stood beside. "<em>Not enough</em>," she thought,"<em>I need at least thirty men to command the smallest of my galleys. I have less than ten </em>." The west was closed to her anyway. Euron and Erik Ironmaker awaited her there. South are the Boltons and Lannisters. Perhaps east, to Essos and join the dragon queen. She did not believe that a Targaryen would be content to stay as the queen of a foreign kingdom, and she would receive her kingdom when the dragon queen returned to claim her throne. If the sailor's tales were true and the queen had rebirthed dragons, then it was all the better. But another difficulty presented itself, as she would need to journey far to the east coast of the North, all the while on the run from the northmen that despise the ironborn. Even if she could reach White Harbor, she had not the gold to voyage upon a ship. Only north, but would Jon Snow grant shelter to the sister of the man who slew his brothers?</p><p>"<em>What would sway him? </em> " Asha pondered. Theon had come with a girl, a certain Arya Stark, Snow's sister. She had escaped her marriage with the Bastard of Bolton. But could one girl make for two boys? If Snow was anything like her father, she would have no place at Castle Black. Stannis had sent the Stark girl north to her bastard brother. Ser Justin Massey had accompanied her. She did not know what to think of Snow, but it was apparent that Stannis admired the young lord commander. He would need a child of Ned Stark to secure the north, preferably one that has proven himself competent and could lead the North in Stannis's stead. "<em>It was a pity that declined Stannis's invitation</em>," Ser Justin had said,"<em>Such a man is wasted in the Night's Watch </em>."</p><p>"<em>Honor </em> ,"Asha thought," <em> That is what I can discern of him. He does not take his oath lightly, and would not be privy to charm. Could a woman join the Night's Watch? Forsake my home, forsake my name, forsake my kingdom, to live out my years watching the North, so that I may live a few more years. No, that is not the fate of the kraken</em>." There was no place for Asha north either, she realized, and the only waters that I may sail in success is the path of King Stannis's victory.</p><p>She thought back to Ser Justin. She missed the arrogant knight, oddly. Though he was a constant pain, and that was not even including his attempts to woo her, she could tolerate some cheerful company in comparison to gruff old Alysane Mormont, Mors Umber, and Stannis Baratheon. Her ironborn had somewhat lessened their spirits of late. Even Qarl the Maid, loud and raucous at times upon the Black Wind, seemed as shy as a greenlander maiden. </p><p>Asha gazed at Stannis, who seemed to be waiting for the sellsword captains' response. A king and a man who Asha still did not know what to think of. She had bent the knee, but that was out of need, not out of will. A hard man to be true, but rigid, not able to bend in the slightest, even if it were advisable. Balon Greyjoy was the same kind of man. Not even her mother could dissuade him with his stubborn fascination with the Old Way, and the belief that the Ironborn were fated to become kings again. "<em>Who is then the Euron to Stannis?  Who is his bane</em>" Asha mused," <em> Himself. He is an even harder man than my father</em>." </p><p>A voice broke out from the bound prisoners. It was a man near the farther end of the line of captured captains from Asha's place. He wore copper-sheened lamellar over his mail, underneath of which Asha could see boiled leather. Five bronze rings adorned his right arm, a sign that he was a lieutenant captain of the company. His hair was dark and flowed around his exposed head, of which his captors had not granted him his helm, framing a comely enough pale-skinned face. "Please, King Stannis,"he broke out.</p><p>Stannis waved his arm," Remove your dirk."</p><p>The captain fell forward and gasped once free of the knife at his throat. His partners glared at him in horror, their expressions clearly betraying their guilty hearts.</p><p>"Your Grace. I shall tell you all that has happened. Although it was not the work of mine that wrought this treachery, I nevertheless share the blame for my company's reputation. Last night, our patrols caught small group of Bolton men, twenty or so. They requested to meet the sellsword captains. I wished to deliver them straight to your grace, but I only share the command of my company. A council was held, and I was outvoted. They were dissatisfied with waiting in the forest, and wished to hear what the Bolton men had to say. The leader, a pig-faced man, introduced himself as Lord Ramsay Bolton, the trueborn son and heir of Lord Roose. He presented us mercenaries with a proposal, said that your grace's campaign was doomed to fail, and outlined the superiority of his own host. He presented a proposal: turn a blind eye to his raid, as when your armies clashed, we were to desert you and strike in your back. We were to force you to battle as your provisions dwindled, and so they may defeat you. As thanks, he promised that Lord Roose would provide us with ample gold and safe passage back to Essos. It was simple for my companions. Either die of the winter cold and starvation, or betray what little honor they had and live a prolonged and richer life. The man even left some gold as an upfront gift to us commanders, a sign of his sincerity. It was a simple choice to make."</p><p>Asha was not surprised that one of the captains would eventually betray his companions. A sellsword with honor was as rare as a chaste sailor.</p><p>Stannis's brow grew furrowed with every passing word, and his crown slipped lower onto his forehead. "Ser Richard," he called to his lieutenant,"send one of you men to the sellsword captains' tent. Gather all the gold that may lie there and bring it here." The older knight nodded, then instructed one of his men to bring to them Stannis's demand. Ser Godry and the King's Men released their hold on the other captains, and they collapsed onto the snow, murmuring and whimpering. </p><p>"Did any of your men know of your treachery?" he asked the captain who had betrayed the others. The captain shook his head. The lines on Stannis's face faded a little, but his eyes still appeared anxious and tired.</p><p>About half an hour later, Ser Richard's men returned with several chests that contained the Captain's valuables. Stannis opened one, and took out a golden dragon. "These are White Harbor dragons," he stated as he looked at the imprint of the maker on the coin," the gold that I paid you in were in Braavosi dragons. How did you come by this gold?"</p><p>"We had other contractors before. That man is lying," one of the captains stated," Those former contractors paid us in those dragons." But Stannis was not of a mind to argue.</p><p>"Your lives are forfeit," he declared,"Ser Godry, see to it."</p><p>"Even the man that told the truth?," Ser Godry responded amidst the wave of protests that met Stannis's decree.</p><p>"These men are liars and oathbreakers," Stannis gritted his teeth," That man is not a liar, but still an oathbreaker. Take his head. Burn the rest to the Lord of Light."</p><p>Shouts littered the square, and the captains pleaded for Stannis to show mercy. And none were more shocked than the betrayer, who thought that Stannis would spare his life for his service. "Your Grace,"Ser Richard said," Perhaps it is not wise to kill all of them. We still need the sellswords to defeat the Boltons. They cannot fight without proper command. Spare one of the captains, so that they may be loyal and grateful to you. The sellswords may not follow a man not their brood, and a sergeant can scarce make a captain in his first battle. Likewise, if any future treasons are plotted, men may then fear to come to you as have shown that you would kill them." </p><p>Stannis did not bend, however,"I do not punish innocents. If that man had no part, he would have come last night, and I would have given him the command of the sellswords. If the men hear of treasons, they would come to me when they have heard, and I will reward them for their service. This man had a part in those plans, which is why he only told the truth now. He is no innocent. If I do not punish those that commit treason, what's to say of all the men in my army whose hearts are quavering. Do not trouble to deny it. This army is on the brink of collapse. Law and only law keeps it together, and I cannot forsake that."</p><p>Not long after, Asha heard far in the distance the screams of the men that were burnt at the stake. The southerners who followed the Red God in the square cheered. The northerners and the Ironborn remained stone-faced. Not long ago, the Karstarks had served as the torches of the camp. Now, the light of the sellswords lit up the dawn. "<em>Would Theon be next?</em>" she thought," <em> or myself." </em></p><p>Stannis rose from his throne, turning to address Hugo Wull,"Lord Wull. I was wrong to mistrust your northmen. It was my dreadful mistake. Your men know the land. In the future, your men shall serve as my sentries, to prevent any future misjudgements." The clansmen chief nodded. </p><p>He turned to Ser Richard,"Sound the assembly horn. The Boltons know where we camp. They seek to provoke us to battle. And I mean to give them what they seek. I am to call a meeting at my pavilion." Stannis made to depart the square, and his southerners followed.</p><p>Asha and her Ironborn were led to their pavilions. Their prisoner tents. There were three guards for every Ironborn, and there were men with swords both inside the pavilion and outside. There was no hope for escape, even if they all tried. In the first days of their imprisonment, her companions had been full of chatter. Now, silence prevailed for the majority of their stay. </p><p>Three hours passed, and a messenger bearing the king's will entered the tent. "Lady Asha," he said," the king wishes to summon you to his pavilion."</p><p>"<em>For what cause </em> ," she thought," <em> Stannis had seemed not like her nuncles, but all men have needs, and his queen is at the Wall." </em></p><p>The camp itself was hastily erected, and the command tent was no exception. From an unknowing eye, it would look as a foot soldier's dwelling rather than the home of a king. There was no decoration, only a banner bearing the sigil of a flaming heart with a stag emblazoned on it that stood outside the tent. Asha was a follower of the Drowned God, and the flame did not hold any holy meaning. In fact, water was the bane of fire, and Ironborn were men of the sea. She was never superstitious, but a flaming stag did not bode well for a kraken, whose home was the ocean. Could this spell her ghastly end, a kraken inland far from the sea, the water within boiled to steam by the heat of the stag on fire. "<em>The Drowned God will never shield me here in the green lands </em> ," she thought," <em> as he never did for Theon. </em>" She had already made up her mind, as she would rather die than service the king. </p><p>She shook her head, dispelling such morbid thoughts. It would not do to show weakness before the arrogant knights of Dragonstone. She was a proud Greyjoy, even if the family name drew her strife. Upon her entry of the tent, it appeared that the meeting was drawing to a close. In the centre of the tent, a poorly crafted table held the map of the lands around Winterfell. Letters and accounts lay strewn on the table. Stannis stood at its head, looking as solemn he always did. Ser Richard Horpe stood next to the king. Clustered around the table were Ser Clayton Suggs, Ser Godry Farring who called himself "Giantslayer", a host of the other southern knights, Lady Alysane Mormont, and two of the mountain clan chiefs, Hugo Wull and Morgan Liddle.</p><p>Heads turned as she made her way into the tent. "Lady Asha," Stannis said," it was kind of you to join us."</p><p>"This meeting is at an end," the king told his council,"organize your respective armies as we have discussed here today. We march on the morrow at dawn." </p><p>The other commanders filed out of the room. Ser Clayton Suggs gave her a sneer as he passed her. He bent down and whispered in her ear,"Perhaps his grace wishes you to serve his pleasure. Mayhaps he would give you to his captains when he is finished." She reached for her dirk, then remembered that it was taken from her along with her freedom. </p><p>"Does the lady wish to show us her breast?" Suggs japed. She stepped back and shot him a glare. His smile widened, sniggered, and retreated out of the tent. </p><p>"You may be wondering why I asked you to come," Stannis said once all the commanders filed out of the tent. She turned to stare at him. After a brief pause, he continued,"The North is only the beginning of my campaign. I mean to take back all Seven Kingdoms. You have bent the knee to me, thus I have a duty to press your claim. I have received a missive from Deepwood Motte. They could not make the journey to deliver wagons full of supplies, but a single rider would be easy to dispatch. The garrison has been paid a visit by an Ironborn galley. The galley's captain claims to be a delegate of your uncle Rodrik the Reader and various other Ironborns. Codd, Goodbrother, Harlaw, Blacktyde, and others. Your uncle Euron has made many enemies, it would seem. The Crow's Eye has begun raiding in the Reach with a greater portion of the Iron Fleet, leaving the Iron Islands undefended. They sought you at Deepwood, saying that they would pledge you their longships and men to take the Iron Islands in your name, kneeling to you as their queen. After hearing that you were with my host, they wished to ransom your release. I am of a mind to name a price. When I take the North, I will be inclined to accept their proposal, provided that you swear fealty to me after you become lady of the Iron Island. You shall be Lady Paramount."</p><p>A hint of joy sprouted within her. The feeling had deserted her in the wake of the past months. She was still yet a queen, who had men at her disposal. She had thought that anyone in the Iron Isles would still support her claim. Goodbrother was a surprise. They shouted Euron's name most fervently at the kingsmoot. It smelled of treachery, and Euron's trickery. The Crow's Eye was too cunning by half to leave him home so vulnerable.</p><p>"<em>And would the Ironborn overturn the sacred rites of a kingsmoot?</em>" She knew her nuncle, and he was no kraken, thereby having not the courage to do so. </p><p>"<em>But I cannot save Theon</em>," she thought<em>,</em>"<em>and none will shout his name louder than the Crow's Eye's when they see what Theon had become. This is as best a choice I may receive.</em>"</p><p>Even so, Euron was not the largest problem that she could see with this arrangement. Stannis's terms were. The Ironborn would be hard-pressed to accept a woman as their queen, and a woman who sworn fealty to a foreign lord would be cast out as soon as she was crowned. However, this was the best chance of retaking her rightful throne, and words are like wind.</p><p>"I am grateful, your grace, for this information," she responded to Stannis," I had not thought that many in my home would wish me as their liege lady." </p><p>"Do you accept this offer."</p><p>"I do"</p><p>He studied her for a long moment, and suddenly changed his tone," Do you resent me for having to kill your brother?"</p><p>"My brother was a fool,"Asha responded," and even worse, he was a proud fool. He deserved what was to come, yet he is still my brother. We are tied by blood. I cannot feel nothing if you kill him."</p><p>"I had brothers once," Stannis said,"my younger brother Renly had grown to be an arrogant fool and a traitor. Yet when he died, I still mourned. I remember the lively and youthful boy that I had loved. After all that he had done, he remained my brother, and my kin. I cannot fault you for resenting me. When I take Winterfell, I shall behead Theon Greyjoy by the ways of the north, as Ned Stark would have done."</p><p>"Your men of the south will not take it well."</p><p>"If you took me for a fanatic fool, then you are mistaken." Stannis said, his eyes burning," Gods may take many forms, but when they commune with us mortals, they take the form of men. Fire priests and priestesses, septons, and who is to say that they truthfully compose the divine will. In the end, are the men the tool of gods, or are gods the tools of men? The men of the north are unique, in a way. They worship gods, yet are not consumed by them like the men of the south. They pray, yet look to themselves for the strength to brave winters. When I ruled a realm of fanatics, and my power was weak, R'hllor served me well. But now I will rule a realm of men, and I must rule with the laws of men."</p><p>She felt relief, as she did not ultimately break her oath to her mother. Theon would have the mercy of a quick death, and not suffer acutely in his final moments. "<em>Mother </em> ," she thought,"<em>T</em><em>his is the best that I can do. I am sorry </em>."</p><p>"That will be all, Lady Greyjoy," Stannis stated, waving his hand," You are dismissed."</p><p>As she left the pavilion, accompanied by the guard that escorted her to the tent, she sank into her thoughts. The camp was a school of activity. Orders might have already been given on Stannis's planned march tomorrow. No man seemed to realize as she strided amongst their midst. Even if Stannis's plan worked, it was sure to be a hard battle. Half of the men she saw may not be alive in several days. Stannis was king, thus he had a duty to his soldiers, and he is responsible for their sacrifice. If she were queen, she would likewise have a duty to her Ironborn. She thought back to the Reader's request. How could she be a better ruler than the Crow's Eye? Euron had the means to grant wealth and power, but he does not care of the lives lost, neglecting the basest duties of a king or queen. Conquest could only get a man so far, and the Hoares could attest to that. How would she become the queen that her people need, bring it peace and prosperity. Endless war, such as if she breaks her word to Stannis, would avail nothing but doom. </p><p>Sighing, she made her choice. Her father will curse her in the Drowned God's halls, call her a greenlander whore, but who was he to judge? He led the Ironborn to desolation with his pointless rebellions and lost three of her brothers, two in the first war, and one in the second. King Balon had said that he served the Drowned God, yet what has the Drowned God ever done for him to bless him. His greatest defeats happened near or in the sea. The Crow"s Eye leads the Ironborn done a similar path. She would not be her ancestors. She would lead her men to peace, even if it meant bending the knee to a greenlander.</p><p>"Peace," she muttered as she trudged through the endless snows," To be a queen, that is what I must do. For peace."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. THEON</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Theon's night did not liberate him. He may have left his scarred and wretched body, felt himself whole again, but that was in itself another punishment. His dreams of late were especially livid, of matters and memories Reek had long forgotten. The chains that bound his wrists to the wall little allowed comfort, but exhaustion finds it way. His time serving Lord Ramsay had taught him to catch sleep whenever he could, as Lord Ramsay would hardly allow him a feather bed.</p><p>He dreamt of the day King Robert's trebuchets had breached the walls of Pyke. For three days, the greenlanders had peppered the walls with boulders. Theon's father, Lord Balon, had ordered that all the women, children, and injured men be housed within the Great Hall, far from the threat of enemy fire. Even there, the continuous rumbling outside the castle walls had haunted Theon all childhood. No one could ever catch a wink of sleep, and each day more men were brought from the castle walls. Some were beyond rescue, and the remaining able bodies had others to attend to before moving the corpses. The rotten stench of dead men permeated the Hall, and he found himself as a child of ten namedays again, burying his nose in his mother's skirt. His mother, Lady Alannys Harlaw, had gently stroked and comforted him, though he knew now that her heart was elsewhere. Within two days, she would receive tidings that her son Maron's body had been found beneath the wreckage of the breach.</p><p>The sky was drowned in the smoke of the enemy camp, and it seemed that with each day that passed it became grayer than the last. At the day of the battle, he had not known anything but the occasional messenger's reports until they had ceased to come. His sister, who was two years his elder, was assisting his father as his cupbearer while he oversaw the siege with the other captains at the Watchtower. A day may have passed in the hall. Perhaps three. No one dared to open the gates and risk their lives. </p><p>When the door finally opened, Theon willed his old self to run, knowing what is to come, yet his boy legs did not move. An army of men entered, though he could only recall the faces of three. There was a fair-haired man who wore the surcoat of a lion, his armor glinting red and gold. Amongst the sombre mood of the Great Hall, he surprisingly wore a lighthearted smile. He whispered something, perhaps a jape, to the man next to him whose face he could not remember, and they had both laughed. The second face he knew from recent memory, although his black hair had still crowned his head at the time. His blue eyes and face of stone remained the same, though, stern and unforgiving. His mouth had twisted in contempt when he saw Theon's younger self. The last face was a man he knew well, his cold, grey, and northern eyes never straying as he snatched little Theon from his mother's grasp. The sight of his monstrous greatsword, while sheathed at the time, had scared Theon greatly, as he had thought the man had meant to kill him. </p><p>His mind recoiled."<em>Was this his memories?</em>" Theon thought. The dream had felt foreign, and yet familiar at the same time. "<em>This is the life of Theon Greyjoy</em>," he realized,"<em>the man that I am, the man that has returned. Theon, which rhymes with nothing</em>." </p><p>Lord Stark met his eyes with his winter gaze, and his dream changed. </p><p>It was high noon, with the air heated and watery. Little light, despite the high sun, could penetrate the thick canopy of the forest, and much of his body was cloaked in shadow. The wood itself was alive, the various creatures' songs blending together to form a cacophony of whispers. He was wearing armor he no longer wore, riding a horse that he no longer knew. The memory began fluttering into his mind, and he whispered,"The Whispering Wood."</p><p>"That's quite an apt description," he heard another soft voice whisper," Perhaps I will have maesters remember this battle as such." A low growl responded to the voice. He looked towards the source, and there, likewise cloaked in shadow, was Robb Stark, the only brother he knew and his closest friend. He did not yet wear a crown, and tidings of his father's death had not yet reached his ears. Nor has he seen the horrors of battle and war. That was what they were, who Theon was, two young boys trying their hand at being heroes. Dampered in grey steel armor while sitting astride a handsome destrier, his body tall and strong, Stark was every bit the hero of the stories. Beside him stood his wolf, Grey Wind, and his retinue. Smalljon Umber, Dacey Mormont, Eddard Karstark, and others. That had struck envy in his heart. Robb would win honor and glory and be remembered as the hero beyond his years who struck down the enemies who dared to strike against his father. History remembers the deeds of kings and lords. Robb Stark would win the admiration of every maiden in the realm. Theon had consoled himself on the notion of being the Ironborn prince, and their future king. He had desperately wanted to be recognized, to be a great man of note, to be the Ironborn prince that would live on in name beside the Young Wolf in histories. He wanted to be someone.</p><p>Theon was never a Stark, not in heart, and he soon found that he was no Greyjoy either. He tried too hard to be both, and in the end he became no one. Glancing at Robb, he wanted to say everything that was in his heart, that he was sorry for all he had done. He wanted to say that if given another chance, he would have stayed, even if a thousand swords would have pierced him at the Twins. When he opened his mouth to speak, he found that his tongue was not within his control.</p><p>"Are you certain,"Theon had asked jokingly," that the Kingslayer will take the bait? We have been waiting here for half a day." </p><p>Robb had given him a stern look. His eyes were so reminiscent of Lord Eddard's that Theon had silently stifled a gulp of fear.</p><p>"What did I tell you, Theon,"Robb lectured, his tone quiet but hard as ice," about raised voices. We're not like to catch the Kingslayer if you alerted him to our presence with your needless shouting." His old self had began to laugh at Robb's attempt at being his father, until he felt the gaze of every man and woman of Robb's honor guard upon him. To them, Robb's words were not japes. They were law. Even the eyes of Grey Wind was upon him, seeming to silently judge his unworthiness. "<em>The beast was too intelligent by half</em>," he had thought,"<em>It is unnatural for wolves to seem as sensible as men</em>." Theon had withdrawn, though, and obeyed Robb's order, muttering agreement. </p><p>Not long after, a messenger would bring news from the Blackfish, that the Kingslayer had descended into their trap. The Lannisters had shown up, decked in crimson and gold and arrogance. The Kingslayer himself had rode in the front, not even troubling to shield himself with a guard. When Robb gave the order to sound the horn, Theon would be one of the first to charge the lions, abandoning his proficiency with his bow. He knew that Robb's bannermen had erupted subsequently from their posts, but he wished for the glory of killing the Kingslayer for himself. Lannister had paid him no mind. When he came upon the company, the Kingslayer had slapped aside his shield easily, Theon with it, and he found himself engulfed by Lannister knights. He was salvaged from the Westerland blades by his fellow northmen, but they could not save him from the rising pit of jealousy as he soon found that Lannister had made directly for Robb. He had brushed Theon off as no more than a common gnat. Only Robb Stark had mattered. </p><p>He choked upon the memory as he found himself another horse, gazing at Robb again. He had betrayed the only brother he ever had, and for what, his petty pride. A thousands times he opened his mouth to shout an apology, and a thousand times he found that his tongue was not his.</p><p>The dream seemed to freeze at that moment forever, one of the last times he and Robb fought together, forever amplifying the pain. </p><p>After what seemed like an eternity passed, the dream changed again. He was no longer on land, but under the sea. Schools of fish swam curiously around the foreign object, but when he moved they scattered. A mighty palace of stone sprawled before him, a maze of mighty towers and grand halls. The only light that he could see were the faint sunlight dappling the waters above, and torches of the palace that burned in water.</p><p>"<em>I am dead</em>," Theon thought.,"<em>Stannis had killed me, and those memories were only a vision of my failed life. The Drowned God's Halls lie before me now, as it did to my forefathers when they died. This is where I shall feast for eternity</em>." He made to enter the palace, but the front gate was barred. The gatekeeper, he soon saw, was none other than his father, King Balon Grejoy. </p><p>"<em>Is my father dead?</em>" he wondered. He could still remember the loathing look his father gave him when he first returned to Pyke wearing that golden chain, and his father wore it now.</p><p>"Begone," he father proclaimed,"You are no ironborn. You were raised by greenlanders, and you have become one of them, turning your back on your traditions and forefathers. Only true ironborn, those that follow the Old Way, are worthy of entering and feasting in the Drowned God's watery halls." As his father's voice dropped, a sudden change took hold of his body, and he found that he could no longer breathe in the sea. Gradually, choking, the image of the palace and his father's look of disgust began to fade. He tried to reach out, to push past his father and enter, but he was overwhelmed.</p><p>He found himself at last in a familiar place, a familiar hearth fire roaring and warming the hall. It was Winterfell's Great Hall, before it was burned. His home. He looked towards the lord's seat, and there he was, Lord Eddard Stark, seated beside his wife Lady Catelyn. Ir would seem that Lord Eddard was holding court. Robb and Theon had been required to attend when they were of a certain age. Lady Catelyn had not wanted Jon there, but Lord Eddard had insisted that the bastard had needed to come as well. </p><p>A realization came onto him. The court was only set up in such a way as befitting Lord Eddard pronouncing judgement. Theon saw Maester Luwin seated on Lord Stark's left, his quill and paper ready to record testimony. Suddenly, he knew, as he found himself standing in the established place of the criminal.</p><p>"Bring in the accuser,"Lord Stark boomed. A man entered. "<em>No</em>," Theon thought,"<em>it was not a man. It was a boy</em>." </p><p>"Robb," he choked out. His brother wore a black cloak stained with blood. It might have been kingly once, but now its brooch was torn and its cape shredded. Several quarrels stemmed from the many wounds on his body. He could still see open ones from which oozed fresh blood, dark and endless. The boy's face changed then, as it were no longer the boy's face that he knew so well. It mangled into that of a wolf, red hair freezing into gray, yellow pupils eyeing Theon, and mouth opening in a snarl.</p><p>"You never were my brother," it spoke, voice low with a touch of a wolf's howl," Bran and Rickon were your blood as well as mine. And yet you killed them, in cold blood."</p><p>Theon realized that the hearth fire no longer burned warm, and the chill of the North began to creep into the hall. He could feel flurries of snow kissing his cheek and exposed neck.</p><p>"I didn't" he stammered in reply," They were never...,"</p><p>"Kinslayer, Oathbreaker," the monster with the wolf's head spoke, its voice somehow booming with the thunder of what he imagined would be the tones of the old kings of winter."The wolf blood still runs strong, and my brood shall have their vengeance."</p><p>A familiar oily voice began to echo in his ear."Is that not true, Little Theon. The northmen will always despise you. You killed their precious princes. Come back to me, and be my Reek." </p><p>A myriad of voices rose, and his eyes, while he tried fiercely to close them, shone with all the men he had killed. Benfred Tallhart, Mikkel the Smith, the two farm boys, all the Ironborn of the Moat, the guards of Winterfell.</p><p>"<em>Too many</em>," he thought."<em>End it</em>."</p><p>Theon jolted awake and found himself drenching wet. The clarity that persisted in this mind during the dream fell away, the drape on his broken body and mind continuing to their earthly torment.</p><p>"That was a waste of good water," he heard someone say,"A good kick to the had would accomplish the same."</p><p>"Anyway," he heard someone else reply,"the Turncloak is awake. Get him out of those chains. King Stannis says we're to break camp."</p><p> His vision corrected itself, and though his mind was still foggy from the dream, he could see the two men-at-arms peering at him. Both wore furs, which they huddled close against their bodies. They wore no helmets, and Theon could see their faces. A beard windswept by snow adorned the face of the first man, and Theon could not tell his age. His hair was either the color of straw or white, and his torso sagged as he sat on the wooden floor. The other man also sported a beard, though he was of much closer distance and Theon could spy that his was black. Both men were lean and tall, though he supposed men of lesser stature would not be assigned to guard a prisoner. </p><p>As the second man drew near, Theon saw the fur cloak give way and reveal the stitchings of the banner of a flaming stag and a red crab, sewn onto the forefront of his boiled leather breastplate.</p><p>"One moment," the man who was sitting said, fumbling with a package that Theon supposed were rations. He took a bite, looked as though he might spit it out, but ultimately decided to swallow. "For weeks," he complained," we have been living off on this. Not even maggots could endure half-frozen horse meat for long. Even in this fur coat, I can feel the winter. And the northmen say that this is not yet the worst, only autumn. Old Loban, I heard, was found dead on watch last night, frozen to death. These northmen are a queer folk. I wonder how they stay the winter in these lands. Was King Stannis mad to march us here? He means to kill us all by the cold." He glanced at the package," or by hunger."</p><p>The second man stopped in his task and turned to address his companion," Do not speak ill of his grace. He promises that within a week we'd be feasting in the walls of Winterfell. We'd have warmth within those walls, and food aplenty."</p><p>The first man grumbled and wrapped his package," I would hope so. Though King Stannis said the same before I lost three of my brothers beneath the walls of King's Landing."</p><p>"That was not a king's word," he heard the other man reply," The Onion Knight is nothing but an upjumped smuggler who won favor by kissing the king's arse. He was not no proper lord. I might even bet my sword that the Onion Knight was in league with the lions. Isn't it queer that he was the only one to survive the wildfire. It was his word at King's Landing, not the king's. It seems that the king has realized the ill counsel the smuggler has been feeding him, saw him for the spy that he was, and sent him away. We are led by sensible men now, noble lords that mean what they say."</p><p>The first man slowly nodded and pocketed the package. The second man turned back to Theon. His mind finally took in reality, and the weight of the shackles again twisted his wrist, rubbing the sore spots red again. He closed his eyes, and dared to try and venture again into sleep. Though his dreams made ill his mind even more so than his waking moments, it was a bliss in comparison to his broken body. Stannis had not given him anything to warm himself, as he was already a criminal marked for death. His jailor had taken pity on the wretched creature that was Theon and gave him a thin blanket. Theon squinted at his two new guards, and saw that the kind man was not among them, not that he would have remembered his face. The blanket had been taken away, he now realized, and he, for the first time since waking, did he note that the little heat within the cabin had given up its fight against the northern cold, much like Theon himself. Its cruel fingers seemed to phantomly caress his shortened stumps, his fingers, and ... he tried not to think of it.</p><p>"Help me,"a man's voice interrupted his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to one of the men towering over him. The other had begun to stand, and from his belt he withdrew the keys to Theon's shackles. He walked to Theon and held the key to the slot upon his left wrist.</p><p>"Do not struggle," he said,"I would prefer if we did not have to beat you bloody." The chain fell away, revealing a red patch of skin, some flakes already peeling off and revealing the gore and tissue underneath. It was quickly replaced by the shackle the other man held. The soldeir unlocked Theon's shackle binding his right hand, and was quickly clasped again by the other man. </p><p>Even if Theon had the strength of his youth, he doubted that he would have tried to escape. Stannis, doubtless, like Lord Ramsay, would have dogs posted to catch him should he have ran. He did not know if Stannis took man's parts, but he did not wish to visit his wrath. </p><p>"Give him a cloak," a voice said, as Theon was pulled to his feet," The king does not wish him to die from this cold." During his stay in the cell, he had little to eat save some stale horse meat and water the jailor gave him.</p><p>His legs, already weak from exertion and lack of proper rest, collapsed beneath him.</p><p>"Seven Hells," he heard a guard, perhaps the older, curse. Soon after, a mailed fist crunched into the side of his head, blazing pain flaring in his skull. Every instinct told him to scream, but he knew better than to cry out. Lord Ramsay would take more if Reek had screamed. For all he knew, this was another game that Stannis meant to play with his new toy. He lay on the ground, unmoving. He had the strength barely to raise his head, which he tried vainly to do, much less his heavy body.</p><p>"Well," he heard the other guard say,"His grace wanted him alive. You might have just killed him. I believe there goes our heads." </p><p>Theon whimpered, a pitifully small sound, but within the echoes of Theon's mind it may have well been a trumpet.</p><p>"We're very much lucky that he's still alive," he heard the same guard continue," I suppose we may still have our heads."</p><p>"Hmph," the old guard grumbled," How will we bring the turncloak to the king, if he cannot stand?"</p><p>"We take turns carrying him,"he heard the other respond,"Anyway, give him the cloak that I told you about."</p><p>Theon felt hands lifting him to his knees and a cloak of rough fabric draped around his torso. It was furs though, so he supposed that he would not freeze to death. </p><p>"<em>Though that may be a more merciful end</em>," Theon thought. He had received visitors from Stannis's men, and they had wagered in front of Theon on how long he would last on the stake. He had no doubt that this was the "warmer end" Stannis had intended. One of the guards picked Theon up and slumped him over his shoulder, as though he weighed no more than a burlap sack. Then again, perhaps he did. He felt his head bob in rhythm with his carrier's strides as they journeyed to the doorway. Upon opening the door, a gust of cold air entered the room, dampening the already sour mood. Theon felt his carrier's muscles stiffen in anticipation of the cold, and thought in bravado that perhaps his captor was shivering. </p><p>The snows crunched as the soldiers' heavy boots marched at a steady pace. His jailor had told Theon that his holding cell had been near the centre of the crofter's village, so he supposed that they would not have to go far to the place of Theon's execution, which he supposed was there.</p><p>It was obvious that the camp was in a state of turmoil, as he could hear many boots marching here and there. He had not the strength to look up. Soon after, he gave up any attempt at recognition of his surroundings and buried his head in the soft furs of his captor's cape. It could at least warm his face,even for a short while.</p><p>After time beyond Theon's knowledge passed, he felt his body lurch backwards and dropped to the ground. His vision corrected itself, and he saw that they were in the middle of the outer camps. They had left the village, and tents were instead arranged for Stannis's men. He saw the banners of white sun on black, and the mailed fist on red. "Karstark." Theon thought," and Glover. Some of the North stand with Stannis. Perhaps they did have a chance." Chiding himself, he did not want to continue the line of thought. It was treasonous talk, and Lord Ramsay would never permit it.</p><p>"<em>Still, They cannot win. Lord Ramsay is too strong. Too strong,</em>" his mind screamed at itself.</p><p>He saw soldiers of all motley, from boiled leather to full plate, some with helms and others caps, handling their baggage as they gathered their tents and loaded it upon wagons. He counted at least a dozen wagons and twice as many horses in this part of the encampment.</p><p>"<em>They will all die</em>," Theon thought,' <em>Do they not know? I should tell them</em>." Though he wished to open his mouth, no words came out of his parched tongue.</p><p>"It's your turn," he saw the guard who carried him pant," He may not be heavy, but you try carrying him half a league in this thrice-damned cold."</p><p>"Can you walk?" the other guard asked him again softly,"We are not far from the king."</p><p>When Theon gave no answer, he sighed and moved to pick Theon up. He let himself be carried, and they began again their journey. Along the way, he saw the gradual flats of the village and its entrapment give away to broken branches, and ultimately the trunks of trees. It was the Wolfswood, he realized in a pang of memory.</p><p>Of all the men he had forgotten, one name could not be erased: Robb Stark. He, Robb, and Jon had often ventured in to the Wolfwood when they were still callow boys. Young Theon had never wanted a bastard to accompany them, they the trueborn heirs of Lord Paramounts. Robb, however, insisted that his brother come with them. And three they were, Robb and his brown destrier, Jon with the humble-colored grey steed, and the proudest of them all, young Theon with his magnificent white-furred mount. He rode upon the very same destrier against the Lannisters. It was one of his greatest regrets to not bring it to Pyke. Smiler was a fair steed, but nearly comparable. </p><p>Once, when they had journeyed without supervision into the deep wood, young Theon had then thought of a foolish venture.</p><p>Lady Stark was originally opposed to them venturing alone into the unknown wild, but Lord Stark had told her that it was good practice for the future Lord of the North to know his lands. Besides, one day Robb may end up relying on himself, and it is better to learn skills sooner rather than later. It would also build bonds of friendship that were better nurtured if they were alone. He left the other portion of his speech unsaid in the boys' hearing, as he had secretly dispatched huntsmen to monitor the boys' activities, and intervene if any danger prevailed. It was most likely for this net of safety that Lady Stark conceded. It was, in hindsight, perhaps the best choice he could have made. </p><p>When they thought they were out of earshot of Winterfell, well into the Wolfswood, Theon prevailed upon them that perhaps they should, as Robb was heir to the North, visit his bannermen. They, young and foolish boys that they were, had not thought whether they had the necessary supplies to undertake such a journey, so great was their fantasy of arriving in a blaze of glory in Torrhen's Square or Deepwood Motte. Needless to say, as they had not even troubled to bring a map, they became lost in the Wolfswood, and if not for the Lord Stark's huntsmen, they may have starved.</p><p>When questioned by Lord Stark over the instigation of their folly. Robb had taken the blame, thereby sparing Theon and Jon the harshest of the punishments. This was yet another sickening memory that reminded Theon that he could never be Robb, and only follies and unworthiness came of the kraken's son. </p><p>They were never allowed to venture alone again until well after a year later, and no fond memory later in the woods could surpass his embarrassment. He was grateful that the cold made certain that his cheeks were already red, so they would not appear as such to any onlooker. </p><p>Thought his face was burning, dissent and discontent sown by the Storm God himself, the Old Gods of the North did not seem to take pity on him. His captors wore fur-lined helmets as far as he could see, but nothing shielded his own head to the winter winds. The cold of the north had numbed his ears, and he thought, in his addled mind, that he may lose parts to frostbite. Another part of Stannis's game. No doubt it was. Perhaps it would be better anyway. If Theon could not feel, the flames seemed less frightening.</p><p>His captor suddenly stopped, and Theon was flipped over the guard's shoulder once again. </p><p>"Your Grace," he heard the guard say,"the turncloak, Theon Greyjoy."</p><p>"Lift his head," he heard a familiar deep voice say," I want to see his face, make certain that it is him." Theon felt a hand wrench under his chin and twist it upwards. A gust of wind blew his white hair from his face, and revealed the sitting figures. </p><p>There Stannis sat, upon a hastily wrought wooden throne, his crown of flames resting majestically upon his brow. His face of stone did not change whatsoever, his eyes burning glares of dark fury. At his side sat, to Theon's surprise, a woman.</p><p>"<em>Strange</em>," he thought,"<em> the jailor said that Stannis's queen did not accompany their host</em>." Then, as sudden as a storm, a memory from another life began to form. "<em>She had visited me once before, when Reek died and Theon returned</em>," Theon thought,"<em>I ought to know</em>." He searched for any hints of her identity. She huddled her furs close around her torso, so any sigil that may bear a clue was hidden.</p><p>"<em>Still</em>," Theon thought,"<em> black hair, vulture's peak, dim remnants of freckles. That is someone I used to know</em>." All other men in this camp he did not. A hundred there may be, perhaps a thousand in the king's retinue, and several dozen commanders and knights. He felt every eye on him.</p><p>"Thank you for your service," Stannis stated," you are dismissed and may return to your posts. You are no longer needed here." </p><p>The soldiers nodded and quickly withdrew. </p><p>"Have you brought this traitor here to face justice for his crimes?," a voice called.</p><p> The voice opened a dam, and soon every man who stood within twenty feet began to spit insults.</p><p>"Turncloak."</p><p>'Burn him. The Lord of Light demands an unbeliever to bless our battle."</p><p>"Justice for the Stark princes." </p><p>"Burn him:</p><p>"Burn HIM"</p><p>"BURN HIM"</p><p>The chant rose, and Theon could see that it was the men that wore the banners of Dragonstone that led the chant.</p><p>"SILENCE", Stannis shouted, and the chant froze," the turncloak shall face justice when we capture Winterfell. Do not fear. I have not forgotten of the murder of the Stark boys. In the meantime, I cannot afford to lose him during the battle and have him escape justice, so I have arranged his stay with us as I oversee the our assault."</p><p>"My lord," one of the knights spoke,"we must still give the Lord an unbeliever. He would not bless the battle otherwise."</p><p>"We have given him unbelievers aplenty,"Stannis spoke,"Did the Lord of Light bless the Blackwater? Aye, he did, and I thank him for his fires."</p><p>"Your Grace, but don't you see," a woman with a bear sigil engraved on her banner spoke," that his sister might want to rescue her dear brother? Even if it were <em>Jorah</em> at someone else's mercy, I would not stand by and let him die." </p><p>"You presume too much," he heard, was it his sister as the bear lady had said, say,"Not every woman is as noble as you. Besides, Ser Jorah, as far as I know, did not stoop to kill children." Theon's eyes were drawn to her, and she gazed at him back mournfully. Though her words held tones of jest, her eyes were not that of a fool. They were neither warm nor cold. Only soft pity poured from her pupils</p><p>Another clamour rang out among Stannis's knights. Most sided with the bear lady, and the others remained silent.</p><p>"THE KING'S WHORE," someone shouted.</p><p>"KRAKENSPAWN"</p><p>"IRON SAVAGE"</p><p>That cry took hold, and soon the camp rose in chant once again.</p><p>"IRON SAVAGE. IRON SAVAGE. IRON SAVAGE."</p><p>:"ENOUGH," Stannis shouted again, his voice even louder than before. Theon saw his grip tighten on his sword,"ENOUGH. There shall be no more squabbles. I will not have my men fight while the Boltons laugh at our mummer's farce of an army. There shall be no issue with Lady Greyjoy. I can vouch for her honor. That I can assure you, Lady Mormont."</p><p>Stannis rose, and raised his sword,"Lightbringer is raised to the south this day, to mortal wars and the clash of petty kings. But that is not the true fight, as the greater enemy lies beyond the Wall, Dead men, and greater magic that has ever been known. The Seven Kingdoms must unite, such will perhaps the smallest chance of our victory arise. Not under the boy king and his whore mother, nor the flayed men that had divided the North to the likeness of the days of Torrhen Stark. That duty I must prevail to take, and yet that may only come if we win this day. Yet how may the Seven Kingdoms unite, I ask you, if already under my banner a northman and ironman would seek to cut each other's throats."</p><p>His voice, beginning majestic and kingly, gradually saddened as his speech continued. His eyes, Theon could see, no longer burned with the fury that Theon had once saw. Theon looked in the direction of his gaze. They were on a hill, overlooking a lake and the tip of the Wolfswood. Beyond that stood the faintest designs of Winterfell's outer wall.</p><p>A day passed with Theon staying at the king's perch upon the hill. Time and again, messengers would arrive, bringing tidings of the various companies. Stannis would receive each, and sometimes send out his knights in detachments with a portion of his men. Theon, through the furthest vestiges of memory, saw the boy who was Theon Greyjoy do the same with another host of other men in northern armor whose names he had forgotten. </p><p>He found himself led by guards into a tent. He sat there furiously rubbing his ears with what strength he had left. No one ever came to speak with Theon. Even those who brought Theon his food, some helpings of meat and a cask of water, had left as soon as they dropped the rations at his feet. They wanted to do with a turncloak. Theon was inclined to agree with them. He wanted nothing to do with himself, either. Not even Theon's supposed sister had come to visit him.</p><p>Apparently Stannis had not wanted his captive to freeze to death before his execution, so he had given him a ravel of warm furs to cover himself with. They had not wished to light a fire, so, through the sliver of the tent that Theon could see, they made plans deep into the night by the light of Stannis's sword. </p><p>The ground was cold and hard, and his hands were bound, but it was much better compared to the cells that he had normally slept in. The night passed warm and dreamless, and Theon felt, for once in many months, truly at peace.</p><p>Morning dawned a pillar of light and life, as the sun filtered behind the tent flap when the guard woke him. Though he was grateful for the long-awaited slumber that his body sorely lacked, he half-wished that his soul had fallen into the abyss of release when sleep took him. It was the right hour to pass, when he was only ever truly at peace. A cough suddenly racked his throat, and a gop of phlegm became lodged in his airways. He felt his nostrils besot with snot, the waves of euphoria accompanying the dawn washing away mercilessly. The same fog that had seized his mind again struck away at the remnants of his sanity. </p><p>When he looked upwards, he saw the guard's eyes narrow in pity. He drew from his cloak a piece of cloth, ragtag and worn. It may have once sported an intricate design, but now it was an object of age and deterioration. "You'll need it," the guard spoke," when the snot comes. You are not the only man who fell ill because of this accursed cold. Get yourself sorted. His grace wants you to be present at the council."</p><p>Shocked by his kindness, Theon looked at the guard. "<em>A southerner</em>,"he thought,"<em>Stannis may have wanted to keep me alive. The northmen would rather the turncloak die, and they may or may not help its course along</em>." The guard turned, but left the tent flap open. It had began snowing in the night, and the open flap allowed for some flurries to settle upon his brow. Once, a younger Theon Greyjoy had marvelled at the sight of the northern wonders. Now, it only reminded him of old men, its colour the very same of the snowbeards near death. "<em>Those near death</em>," thought Theon,"<em>one of whom was </em><em>Theon Greyjoy, or whatever had remained of him." </em> He shook off the blanket, then gathered it and wrapped it around his body as he rose.</p><p>He gathered himself, and rose to his feet. Hands upon the tent opening, he stepping outside, shrugging his furs close around his body. Near an inch of snow had pooled upon the forest floor, and his boots made wet squelches, his own prints adding to the ranks of the already blossoming maze of paths that Stannis's people had tread. A council was already arranged near the trunk of which they had planned the previous day. Their eyes, however, were not upon the map that was already arrayed. The gaze of all of Stannis's men were upon the direction of Winterfell, and the large snowstorm that had assembled before its walls.</p><p>"<em>An army</em>," instincts told Theon," <em>Lord Ramsay's army</em>." A voice inside grew ever more fierce,"<em>They cannot stay here. Could they not see that Lord Ramsay comes to take their heads as trophies. They must run</em>:"</p><p>"You must flee," he burst at Stannis,"His men number in the thousands, the bravest of the North. Lord Ramsay will defeat you and your men, sure as sunrise." </p><p>Stannis turned as his stone eyes met Theon's. The others turned as well, though their faces only betrayed expressions of mild to moderate annoyance. </p><p>"<em>They should be fleeing</em>," Theon thought," <em>Lord Ramsay will tear each one of the fools apart piece by piece, as he did with me.</em>"</p><p>Stannis's eyes glimmered with rage, but did not say a word, and turned again to face Winterfell and Lord Ramsay's army. The others echoed their king. </p><p>Theon sank with hopelessness, his knees crashing against the forest floor. The snow did little to cushion his fall, and his knees fell like stones into the frozen soil. The pain did not hurt him as much as his sorrow racked his mind. He ignored the continuous coughs and sneezes that would occasionally burst from his nostrils and mouth. There was no hope for escape, as Stannis had made certain of that with his folly. He could only hope that a Bolton slew him before he could be delivered to Lord Ramsay. He gazed south, at the ever-growing mound of dust that was surely the forefront of Lord Ramsay's horse.</p><p>An army of fools. Those were the men arrayed before him. They did not know how the storm they are welcoming is their doom.</p><p>The storm drew closer, and he could see the outlines of some of the running  and galloping figures. It became clear to him that Lord Ramsay's cavalry were chasing fleeing men, Stannis's men.</p><p>"<em>That was Stannis's vanguard, most like</em>," Theon thought,"<em>and they were torn to shreds. They cannot hope to stand against the might of Lord Ramsay.</em>"</p><p>The encroaching storm drew closer still, and the fleeing men's banners were made clear. White sun on black. Karstark. Many of the men had been cut down by their pursuers, but the lingering portions of that defeated host still fled to Stannis.</p><p>The broken men drew closer, and so did the encroaching host.  Two volleys were fired from Stannis's archers, the speed of their arrows helped by the northern wind.</p><p>"<em>Too little</em>," Theon thought,"<em>Too late</em>." The arrows did little to impede the progress of the Bolton horse, and their leader, seemingly seeing Stannis, raised his blade in rally. </p><p>Theon knew that armor."<em>Lord Ramsay</em>," he thought in fear.</p><p>Lord Ramsay rallied his cavalry and charged at the enemy commander, not caring to pursue the remaining broken men. </p><p>"<em>Stannis has failed</em>," Theon thought," <em>Lord Ramsay has won. He cannot escape now</em>." </p><p>Stannis raised his sword, its fire as bright as a second sun. His knights drew their swords as well, and for a moment the singing of blades hung in the winter air. One of his knights dipped his banner in flame and heaved it upright. By the fierce northern wind, the flaming stag shone as clear as a new dawn. And the ice cracked, and Bolton's men fell.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. SAMWELL</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As a boy, he had dreamed of studying at the Citadel and becoming a maester. The library of Horn Hill was not necessarily lacking in such matters, and he read up on the famed scholar guild whenever he could. His father had tolerated his behavior at first, not knowing his intents to become one of them, but then grew to realize that he had no interest in matters of war and leadership, qualities that Lord Randyll Tarly had hoped his heir would possess. Samwell had no interest in inheriting Horn Hill and he was glad to let his brother Dickon, whom Lord Tarly favored more, to inherit the title while he became one of the scholar's guild, thereby swearing an oath to forsake all claims to inheritance.</p><p>Lord Tarly was not pleased, and he presented him with the ultimatum of the Wall. Sam could still hear the echoes of his father's words,"No Tarly man would willingly wear a chain." He had hoped that Samwell would learn become a warrior of the Night's watch or die for all he cared, as he would suffer no servants as harbingers of his legacy. He wondered what his father would think now, with Sam intending to become the maester of the Night's Watch, the very thing that Lord Tarly despised.</p><p>After all, he may need to meet his father again. Whilst he studied to become a maester, Gilly and the child would require a safe haven, with the only possibility being Horn Hill, his ancestral home. </p><p>Sam glanced around at the marble statues lining the halls of the Citadel's extensive library. It was a pity that he had to leave soon to escort Gilly and Mance's son. The sight of all these texts made him wish that he had sufficient time to sit down and devour them all. </p><p>Sam sighed. He had to keep his promise to Jon. The lord commander needed his knowledge. Though after Marwyn's words, he doubted that any texts pertaining to myths or legends would have survived. The cold had long deserted his mind, and he did not wish to revisit it anyway. But he forced himself to search. When he returned to Castle Black, he needed to be able to advise Jon as wisely as Maester Aemon had to countless Lord Commanders before. Sam had hoped to convince the maesters of the Citadel of the threat north, but after he heard the Mage's speech, it seemed far-fetched. The learned maesters in matters of proven fact would not take seriously a matter they regarded as children's fables for several millennia. </p><p>Sam turned around a corner, and up ahead he could see a ray of light shining though one of the library's many windows. </p><p>Panic seized him, as he realized that he had forgotten an important matter. He was supposed to meet Archmaester Theobald at the Seneschal's court at first light.</p><p>It had taken several stags to bribe the acolyte, as he had been annoyed by Sam's previous pestering. Though even Sam found the results instantaneous. Previously finding a thousand excuses to delay his meeting. the acolyte's mannerisms made a visible change. He was no longer sour as he had been. The acolyte had arranged a meeting for Samwell at the dawn of the next day, as the Court was closing the night when Sam bribed the gatekeeper. </p><p>"<em>If it were not for that boy Pate</em>," Sam thought,"<em>I would have had this business done a day ago, and now we would be preparing for our journey</em>."</p><p>After leaving briefly to check with Gilly and little Aemon on the <em>Cinnamon Wind</em>, he returned to the Citadel. To pass the time, he decided to begin his studies. Technically, he was not a student of the Citadel yet, and was not granted the privilege of accessing the library.</p><p>The Sphinx had laughed when he voiced his concern," Maesters of the Citadel would oft go into town to visit brothels when they are sworn to a vow of celibacy. Who would care if you snuck in the library amongst the throng of other maesters?"</p><p>It appeared, that in his fascination of the Citadel's books, he may have lost track of time and in all likelihood his appointment. He did not look forward to wasting any more gold on the acolyte. HI remaining silver would be hard-pressed to buy a wagon, much less on bribes.</p><p>Due to his body and interests, he was never really proficient at running. The Night's Watch may have strengthened him some, but he was still as fat as a whale. He did not trouble to train on the boat rides, as he was sick enough just standing by the rolling waves, so the past months have caused his muscles to grow soft again. However, this time he managed to run faster than he ever did in his life, all thoughts of tiredness deserting his mind. He did not care for the Citadel residents that he barreled into and knocked over in his haste, muttering apologies as he ran. He could deal with those consequences later. As of now, the only thing on his mind was reaching the Archmaester's court before he decided to skip his appointment.</p><p>Fortunately, he was only slightly late. The Archmaester had not proceeded to his next arrangement.</p><p>"Samwell Tarly, "the archmaester said, without lifting his eyes from the scroll that he was writing on," May I inquire upon the reason of your tardiness?"</p><p>Realizing that his activities last night were not exactly permitted, coupled with his beating heart from the physical exertion, he panted and began to stutter,"I... I.."</p><p>"Speak," the archmaester snapped as he placed his quill in his inkpot. The Archmaester had looked up at Sam now, and his expression was hard and cold, his lips tightening into a frown.  </p><p>"<em>You faced an Other, Sam.</em>" he told himself," <em>They call you Sam the Slayer. Do you fear an old man?</em>"Sam could not find comfort in that, for he feared to think of the frigid cold that had almost consumed Gilly and himself. He hardened his heart and spoke. He needed to tell the truth, damn the consequences. "I was reading in the Citadel library," he spoke, quickly and anxiously,"and lost track of time. I know that I am not permitted in there, and for that, I seek your pardon."</p><p>To his surprise, Theobald's face softened,"It is no matter. There is nothing of issue with you seeking knowledge in our archives. To be frank, I had opposed this particular law. The Citadel now guards it knowledge like a dog guards its meal. Knowledge should made known to all, not limited to us maesters. It is no great deed to lord over another because you are able to access knowledge that they are not. We used to pride ourselves on the fact that we study the workings of the world more deeply than others, and now we pride ourselves over repeating facts that our ancestors discovered long ago. Constant advancement was the norm in the days of old. as the right to arrogance was a fruit of countless innovation. Now, we have deteriorated and become stale. Forgive me for my brashness earlier. I had thought your hesitance to answer was for a deed that you knew I would not approve of. So many of my students, when they a free night, go off gallivanting in the city. I wish they were as studious as you, placing books over wine and women."</p><p>Theobald set the scroll that he was writing to the side, presumably to dry. "I apologize again," Theobald stated," for delaying you with such a long speech. I believe that you have business to discuss with me. What business would a black brother have at the Citadel?"</p><p>Sam let out a breath that he had not known he was holding, and he dared to avert his gaze to the archmaester. Only having snuck glances at the archmaester's expression after bracing himself for a flurry of lectures that was sure to follow his initial barb, he finally took stock of the archmaester's appearance. The archmaester was an old man, around sixty to seventy years in age. Not nearly as old as Maester Aemon, as his eyes still held the light of sight. His hair and beard were almost entirely white, but he still saw some brown lingering strands, a shadow of his youth.  He wore the standard maester robe that he had seen on many of the maesters he had passed while at the Citadel, a monotonous grey garb bearing many pockets. It was alike in manner of design to his black cloak, only grey in color. His necklace, however, was a stark contrast to his unceremonious robe. He spied links of yellow gold, red gold, silver, iron, copper and brass. There were others hidden behind Theobald's neck. The links that Sam saw were dominated by the presence of multiple links of lead. Sam counted at least four, the most of other metals being two of gold and two of iron. He judged that Theobald was the archmaester of architecture due to overwhelming display of expertise in that area upon his neck. </p><p>The desk of the archmaester was especially splendid, made from solid yellow gold. He read that the table of the Seneschal's Court dated to the beginning of the order of maesters. The art of carving such designs on gold has long been lost, the only legacy of the carvers being this exquisite relic. Sam wondered how its crafters had managed to maintain structural integrity given gold's soft nature. He had always wished to witness this wonder. From the four corners rose four intricately carved candle-holders. Each sported a different animal head, their mouths opening to reveal a compartment to place a candle. A raven's head and serpent's head were the easily distinguishable ones, the heads closest to where Sam was standing. Further away, he could see that the third head was that of a wolf. The fourth, he could not tell. The candles themselves have exhausted most of their wax. It was clear that Theobald had been here awhile, working before meeting Samw. </p><p>Remembering what Alleras, or, as he mused, Prince Oberyn's bastard daughter, had told him, he hesitantly replied,"As a child, becoming a maester was one of the my dreams. When I arrived at the Wall to take the black, I was fascinated by the immense wisdom of Castle Black's Maester Aemon. I became his personal steward and had striven to learn from him."</p><p>"<em>This</em>," Sam thought,"<em> at least was true. Everything after becomes lies</em>." "Once," Sam continued," I ventured to ask him how he held such vast knowledge, and he laughed, saying that it was nothing. Maester Aemon often spoke highly of his colleagues at the Citadel, stating that his humble knowledge could only hold a candle to the vast bonfire of wisdom the archmaesters hold. If I were to seek true wisdom, I was to learn from the likes of those at the Citadel. Maester Aemon, unfortunately, was old and frail, and Lord Commander Snow feared that the Wall would lack a trained maester. His fears came into fruition one day when Maester Aemon was found dead in his bed. The Lord Commander sent me, as I have shown interest in becoming a maester, to study at the Citadel and replace Maester Aemon at Castle Black. Here is his letter containing his warrant." </p><p>He gave Archmaester Theobald Jon's letter. Jon had originally given him two letters, one confirming Sam's claim to go to the Citadel, the other a dreadful warning. Once, he had thought it unnecessary to include the confirmation, as he believed Maester Aemon would live to see him through with the archmaesters. Now, he saw Jon's wisdom. The other letter he carried was also addressed to the archmaesters, but it held a different tone, this one a warning of the threat of the Others. Jon, no, Lord Snow, had wished that the maesters could believe the truth, and they in turn would use their influence to make the realm heed the warnings of the Watch and look north. However, Marwyn's words suggested that it was not wise to reveal the second letter. Not yet, anyway. </p><p>Theobald took the letter and broke the seal. The seal of the watch, compared to the flowery pride of the Reach lords on the seals of many letters that his father received, was rather plain. It housed an uniformly black backdrop with the simple initials of the Night's Watch. Generations of Lord Commanders have used this same monotonous seal throughout all the years of the Watch, a sign of how the black brother would no longer bear individual arms or banners, and only that of the order. </p><p>A memory surged up within him, a recollection of a conversation that he swore to forget. When King Stannis first arrived at the Wall, before Jon became Lord Snow, King Stannis had offered to legitimize Jon and make him Lord of Winterfell. But before he approached Jon with the offer, he summoned the Wall's maester to meet him in the King's Tower where he resided. Since Maester Aemon was frail and it would not be best if he journeyed on errands, Sam, his steward, had gone in the old maester's place.</p><p>
  <em>"I do not believe you are Castle Black's maester?" King Stannis had asked,"You do not bear a chain."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"No," Sam had replied,"I am only his steward. Maester Aemon has one hundred and two years, so I hope that you can forgive the matter that he is unable to attend your grace. If you require service, I normally attend to most of Maester Aemon's duties while he offers wisdom and advice."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"That is well," King Stannis responded gruffly,"You are sufficient for my needs." </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The king had confided in him then his wish to legitimize Jon,"I would require many documents drafted to all the northern lords rallying them to the Warden of the North and their rightful King of the Iron Throne should Lord Snow accept my proposal."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Even so," Sam had said," the northern lords will always see him as a bastard. All lords are especially proud and prickly. They will not take well to Jon pretending to be a Stark. Perhaps instead of the standard Stark sigil addressed on the letters, I can invert the colors for a white wolf on grey. A bastard sigil will lords that Jon has direwolf blood, but is shown to be humble and knows that he is not trueborn. It will be better suited to win more men to his cause."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>King Stannis had glared at him,"Your friend is not a Blackfyre pretender, an usurper or a traitor. He is legitimized by order of his rightful king, and is thus treated  with all honors befitting a trueborn Stark. It is the duty of the northern lords to obey the decree of their rightful liege lords. Do not speak of this to me again."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>After pausing a moment, King Stannis spoke again," I have spoken at length with Lord Snow, and I understand that you are one of his dearest friends. Lord Snow has need of loyal men to serve him if he is to become Lord of Winterfell. I am willing to extend the offer of pardon to you. There is an old saying that there are two lords in a castle, the sitting lord the noble, and the standing lord the maester. Oftentimes it is the maester that holds true power, as the noble listens to their counsel. My offer to Lord Snow is for him to become Lord Paramount of the North. The maester of Winterfell will hold the fate of the North in their hands, as it is their duty to be the guiding voice of the Lord of Winterfell. It needs to be someone of competence. That is true, but if that were the only need, I need only to send for the Citadel. More importantly, it needs to be someone that has proven his fidelity. From what I have heard from Lord Snow, you fulfill both qualities." </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sam was struck with surprise. Realizing that he was in the company of a king, he quickly regained his composure.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Did Jon suggest this?," Sam had asked.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"It is my idea," King Stannis had replied,"I plan to tell Lord Snow of this arrangement if he accepts my offer. Do you accept this proposal?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"It is my honor," Sam had answered.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Very well," King Stannis had said. His lips curled up slightly in what could have been a smile. It was the only time that Sam had seen the king wear that look,"You are dismissed."</em>
</p><p>Later, Sam had been ashamed for making light of his vows on the whims of ambition. When Jon had rejected King Stannis's offer, he swore to himself that he would not think of how he lacked the courage to uphold his own honor. Jon had always been stronger than him, his sense of duty more rigid, and Sam had long accepted the fact. It was then that he decided to plot for Jon to ascend to Lord Commander, as a man of that quality deserved a position of power. He did not wish to admit it, but before bedding Gilly he had already broken his vows, just that his treachery did not go through. </p><p>He had all but forgotten, or perhaps he wished to forget about it, yet now, thinking of the seal awakened his memory of his failed suggestion and broken oath.</p><p>"<em>Still</em>," Sam thought,"<em>in another world, I might be standing here now, hoping to become the maester of Winterfell</em>." </p><p>It shamed him that he wished to become that man. </p><p>His thoughts drifted back to the present, as Theobald began to speak," So you seek to become a maester. Your letter seems to be in order, though I must inquire on how Lord Snow came into his power. Last I heard, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch was Jeor Mormont." </p><p>Sam then recounted the tale of the happenings at the Wall, from the mutiny at Craster's Keep to Jon's election, and Theobald nodded,"Very well. I grant you the admission to study at the Citadel as a novice. I have full confidence that you may succeed. If you are Aemon's chosen pupil, then you will have no issue here. I have not had the pleasure of meeting the old man before, but I know his wisdom. You know the Archmaester of the Ravenry, Archmaster Walgrave. When he was younger and stronger, decades ago, he was the archmaester of the leaden link. He studied with Maester Aemon in his youth, and in my tutorship he often spoke of how Aemon was the best of their year, and cheated of his rights. Aemon and Walgrave have more in common than you would think. Their birth names are both considered treason now. While Aemon's was Targaryen, Walgrave's was Reyne. He once had a fiery mane of red hair, but it turned grey as he aged. When Lord Tywin drowned Castamere, that was the final straw for Walgrave's already feeble mind of old age. Sometimes, I wonder how he has lived so long after, mad as he is. The Lord of Casterly Rock did not forget about a Reyne at the Citadel, but one look at Walgrave absolved him of any need to kill him. Perhaps it was because a stroke of misjudgment and pity that befell the young lord's mind when he saw the old man stumbling before him. Perhaps it was the fact that there were no need, as Lord Tywin's lesson had already sunk into his vassal's hearts, and there were no need to kill a maester, absolved already of inheritance."</p><p>"What I mean to tell you," Theobald continued," is that when a man joins the Citadel, he abandons any previous name, all rights to inheritance and lordship. It would not do for a noble lord to slay a man of the Citadel, for he has already forsaken his house. I, myself, was a Crakehall. I have heard that they call my nephew the 'Strongboar', and he made himself a hero in the War of the Five Kings, though I care little of those matters. I have seen my brother and his children perhaps thrice in twenty years. They are my family, and I love them, but my love for the Citadel, as should all maesters be, is greater. If you are to join our order and ascend to the rank of maester, you shall be addressed as Maester Samwell. You are to abandon your family name, Tarly, and all of who you were before. Is that clear, Novice Samwell?</p><p>Sam nodded, as the Night's Watch held similar vows, and Theobald again continued,"There is one more thing that needs to be addressed. It takes many years to forge a chain. Castle Black cannot be without a maester for that long.This is highly irregular. Under normal circumstances, we would send one of our order to take the black and serve the Watch when the Lord Commander or one of the commanders of the castles along the Wall sends for one of us, not to train a novice that has already been in the Watch. Until such time as you forge a chain, the Citadel shall send another maester to serve Castle Black in your place."</p><p>This took Sam by surprise again, as he had not thought of the fact that the Watch needed a maester when he and Maester Aemon were gone. He did not know what then to make of his own place at Castle Black. One castle cannot have two maesters, and once the other takes the black, he cannot be switched with Sam as the vows are for life.</p><p>Theobald looked consumed in thought. Finally, he spoke:"If you were any other man, I would not have taken the liberty to educate you on our ways and customs. I would have sent you directly back to Castle Black with a maester that we will appoint. However, for Aemon's sake, I shall accept your proposal to become a novice. I present you a choice. When you forge your chain, you may serve at a castle of the council's choosing or, if you prove especially accomplished, serve as an archmaester to teach other novices. The Wall is where we send our most hopeless graduates, as it is a place of hardship and cold. Aemon was an exception, as the council despised his name. A maester in any other castle would have every comfort. The Citadel has many friends, and the council may appeal to your Lord Snow and the crown to have you pardoned from your vows of the Night's Watch. Your father serves as one of the king's marshals, and he is close to the king. You may study here without worry of the inevitable return to the cold, now that winter is coming. You may become a maester in your own right by the conventional means, and pardoned from your oath to the Night's Watch." </p><p>Much to Sam's displeasure, he was speechless once again. He found not the courage to decline outright. The pronouncement had exceeded his wildest expectations. His boyhood dream was to become a maester, a master of knowledge. He had long since accepted that the best he could achieve would be to serve as maester at the Wall. That wish was accompanied by both the endless winters and the everlasting fear of the Others. He partly relished the fact that he may escape the North, and go as south as south goes.</p><p>The archmaester opened a path that he had long thought closed, ever since that fateful day when his father learned that his son aspired to become one of that order. Now, he could pursue his passion without worry of facing the Others again. Deep inside, he knew that it was wrong, and he was still a craven at heart. Jon sent him with a duty, and he needed him to help him hold the Wall. The Others had shocked him to the core, though, and he would be of no use in that fight. The Wall was tall and strong, holding ancient magic that could defend against the dead, and it had strong men like Jon and Pyp and Grenn and Dolorous Edd to defend it. It would hold for many years. They are men of war, of battle, and it was their talent. It was never Sam's. His talents lay in the area of books and knowledge. His best contribution to the cause would be from the rear. Perhaps one day he could become a maester of great wisdom and renown, perhaps even an archmaester or the grand maester. He could do much more for Jon and the Watch, counselling lords and kings to direct their swords north.</p><p>He bit his tongue."<em>Does my duty mean nothing to me?</em>", he scolded himself silently,"<em>I am a man of the Night's Watch, sworn to be the watcher on the wall for all the nights to come. Would I cower in fear of my duty, my honor, when met with my own desires</em>."</p><p>"<em>I already have once</em>," he thought grimly,"<em>but although</em> <em>I was never the stronger man, I am loyal to my friends, and I will never abandon them</em>.:"</p><p>Then, Sam thought of Gilly, and the boy that could very well be her son, as the red witch would have killed her true child for king's blood. If he were to go north out of loyalty to his friends, reject Theobald's offer, he would be abandoning Gilly and her child to the wolves of the southern courts and cities. Thinking back, he saw the folly of his plans. His father would be likely to never accept his son's lover and his baseborn grandson into his castle. His mother might, his brother likewise, but not his father. He could not bring them back north either, as the wall would be no place for them. </p><p>Grinding his teeth, he made his choice. He needed to stay south, for Gilly and their Aemon. He will still make the journey to Horn Hill. His father was cruel, bur his father was just. If he gave his word, he would not renege on it. If his father rejects him, he could find them a place at Oldtown, where he will stay and study. He would be close at hand should anything happen, and he would not have to worry about leaving them alone should he have kept to his original plan. </p><p>A filthy turncloak and oathbreaker was what Sam had become, but he had to do it, for his <em>family</em>.</p><p>Sam still remembered that one day on the <em>Cinnamon Wind</em>.</p><p>
  <em>The captain, his daughter, and most of the crew were sleeping in the cabins, leaving Sam and Gilly alone on deck save for a few watchers. The veil of night had not yet unraveled, though wisps of light, he had thought, could be seen across the horizon. The stars were still glinting in all their glory, an hour before the break of dawn. Strangely, the wildling prince had stopped crying and fallen asleep whenever they took him outside the cabin.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Blood of the true North," Gilly had said,"Wildlings brave the cruelest of winters, and live in the worst of lands. Theirs is the blood of nature, the little prince not less so."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sam himself, though, was duly grateful for being able to sleep a wink without the disruption of the baby, though he had to wake every few hours to change shifts with Gilly in caring for little Aemon. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The crew had offered to carry Aemon for a time, while Gilly and Sam both slept, but when Aemon was placed in their hands, he immediately woke and began to squeal. Gllly had quickly snatched the child back, and in the cradle of her arms the babe quickly fell asleep again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Little Aemon Steelsong would only rest at the hands of who he supposed was his mother and father," Sam had thought then."His father. Me. I cannot fill that role for long." </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was his turn to care for the babe that day., and his head was still swimming from being freshly awakened. To his surprise, the babe was awake and gazing at the stars. Gilly was humming a ballad, trying to nurse the baby back to sleep, though over the crash of the waves it was doubtful that the babe heard. Seeing the baby gaze at the sky, a sudden urge had seized Sam.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"See that bright star in the north," he told the baby,"Septons call it the Father's Guide, a beacon that lead the holy to everlasting bliss in heaven when their souls pass from this world. I, however, have read in a maester's writings that the septons speak nonsense, and that stars are just balls of flame, this star the brightest flame of them all."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He caught Gilly giving him a queer look and he flinched," What did I say wrong?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her eyes, by the shimmering dawn light, were downcast and saddened," Aemon might as well be my son. My true child is all but lost. Your words made me think of how Aemon would never have a father to teach him such things."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Aemon has me. You said so before," Sam had responded.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Does he?" Gilly asked. "When Lord Snow," she spat the name," calls you north to serve him at the Wall, will you not go? Will you abandon your son?"</em>
</p><p><em>Sam was left speechless, and Gilly stormed past him into the cabin, taking the baby with her. He had always enjoyed breaking his fast, though the food was often stale or distasteful. That particular day, he tasted the bread's moldiness. The salted meat, little did he get, was still of good taste, though his thoughts consumed him until he realized that he had eaten his share without savoring the flavor.</em> </p><p>
  <em>Little Aemon was scarcely a few months old, but he knew a few words. One was "Papa", and he shouted it whenever Sam entered their cabin.</em>
</p><p>He realized Theobald's eyes were on him. "Yes," he said," I accept." </p><p>Sam could already hear Green and Pyp.</p><p>"<em>Turncloak</em>," they snarled,"<em>Oathbreaker</em><em>. You leave us to starve at the Wall while you eat pastries at some rich southern castle</em>."</p><p>He could see Jon's disappointing gaze. Lord Snow did not say a word, but no word was needed. </p><p>"<em>I am a craven</em>," Sam realized,"<em>the Wall could not change my nature. Fear for my kin, but fear nonetheless. My father may have had the right of me. An useless pig that weighs down everyone's duty. I have done that to my father, and Jon as well. Then a craven, now a craven, always a craven</em>."</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. ALAYNE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Of Winter king, the south still sings,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>come high white banners forth streaming,</em>
</p><p>
  <em> of fallen sun and flayed man's scream,</em>
</p><p>
  <em> the kraken's home asea calling.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The winds of yonder shores have heard,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dim light echo of mother's tears, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Amidst the foe, a princeling wolf,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>the salt breeze sighs of kin forsook.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>From line of iron, greyborn kings,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and might of sea god, blood so keen,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Lay ever cold on hither shore,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and far from father's call so torn.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>By sung laments of northern king,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>to lion's claws, and wolf's young spring,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and kraken's maw by golden sword </em>
</p><p>
  <em>in wood of whispers heard lion's roar</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>An oath of love, of princes proud,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Kin in banners, blade and bow, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>That longed afar in river roused,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>in bloodsworn lands of marched sorrow.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A crown they laid upon his brow,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>of iron-driven northmen's dream, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>and endless reigns they sought to bring,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>by black lands laid to wolven-kings.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>And made his crown by broken swords,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>the light of grand hall's torches shone</em>
</p><p>
  <em>his blue eyes laid by shade of war</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and all that knelt before his throne.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The kraken joined, with shouts of might,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>his darkened gaze and fair face held, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>an oath to keep, through wolf king's fight, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>brothers' honor until they fell.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Abreast they fought, in camps they slew,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and heard down south, the horn that blew,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Blood to spill under star-strewn sky,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Among songs of slaughter in wailing night.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The singer's voice became soft, and he stroked his harp ever more slowly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>And who am I to call him friend,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>the kraken sings ere to the end.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>By winds on seas before his hair,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Rose in answer voice so fair.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Songs clear and cold heard from the deep</em>
</p><p>
  <em>of distant shores in memory,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>besides the tower and calling keep.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His home awaits his hero's deeds.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oath lies broken, their fortune turned,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>coats of wolf by kraken burnt,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and tears of blood by stout bridge ran</em>
</p><p>
  <em>while deathly crows manned northern lands.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Robb</em>," Alayne thought. She wondered why a singer would make a song about the Young Wolf's northmen, the enemies of the crown that they were. She braced the tears that welled within her eyes. It would not do to weep at such a merry occason. She was Alayne Stone, the bastard daughter of Lord Baelish. Lord Baelish's daughter had no brothers, nor any sisters, and her father lay with his head still upon his neck, jesting with the Vale lords at the head of the table. Alayne wondered if her father, her true father, had once sat where Lord Baelish sat now, as Lord Stark had often spoken fondly of his time at the Vale.</p><p>Her mother was a courtesan of Braavos, a dark-haired beauty that her father had met in his many ventures to the Iron Bank, not the lady who had died at the Twins. </p><p>She was glad that soon she could give up this mummer's farce, when she wed Ser Harrold, and be Sansa Stark again.</p><p>But for that Greyjoy, she would wish to forget.</p><p>"<em>Bran and Rickon</em>," she thought,"<em>It is best to not think of them. There is time to mourn, time to build cairns in their honor, when Winterfell is in Stark hands again</em>,"</p><p>"<em>And time to exact vengeance</em>," she thought morbidly.</p><p>The singer was a dark-haired man, with a long nose and deep blue eyes. He had a comely enough face and a fair voice, she supposed, though after Marillion's songs she could not bear the voices of singers. The valleys would sometimes still echo her aunt's murderer's voice in her darkest dreams at night. </p><p>Still, a feast without song is no feast at all, and she supposed that she could endure his voice. Lord Nestor Royce had been wary of singers, after Lady Lysa's fall, but her father had convinced him otherwise.</p><p>"We might as well host a funeral, my lord," her father had said," It is a tourney, for the Seven's sake. We'll keep a watchful eye. See that we protect the honor of our maidens."</p><p>It was the third day of the tourney to choose Lord Robert's Winged Knights, and each day was crowned with a marvelous feast at day's end. She had not yet thought of who to give her favor, reserving her right to the ever-shrinking batch of victors. </p><p>Half the knights that sought to win a place amongst the Winged Knights had fallen in the melee in the first day, and half the victors in the second. A joust was held earlier that day, and sixteen knights remained. The disgraced knights had no need to remain, but some stated to cheer their brothers and friends, others to savor the feasts that were held daily in their honor.</p><p>Her betrothed had been one of the sixteen. Ser Harrold had always joined the first charge at the melees, yet always emerged triumphant. The blunted blades of the Vale's men knew better than to strike  their future lord. After all, there were eight places to win, and they could begrudge one. In the joust earlier that day, Lord Belmore's bastard, Ser Hugh Stone, faced Ser Harrold. In their third pass, her betrothed had unhorsed his opponent.</p><p>"<em>I would need to choose a recipient of my favor by the morrow</em>," she thought. </p><p>"He is bold," she heard Myranda Royce say," to sing of the northerners in so fair a tone. Lord Robert still swears his swords to King Tommen, and the shadow of the war has not yet passed. I don't believe that will affect our young knights overmuch, youthful and unblooded as they are. Our old lords, perhaps, but they never turn their ear to the songs of the youngsters."</p><p>The lady leaned towards her, the lady's blue samite dress brushing against hers. Alayne thought that she looked beautiful this night. Her samite dress was sky blue like the colors of the Arryn sigil, decked in pearls and inlaid with golden strands. It gleamed prettily in the flickering torchlight. Though she had a rather large bosom, it fitted her well, accenting her curves. She wore a necklace, bronze in the likeness of her house. Her brown hair hung above her head in the fashion of the southern ladies. Alayne had long since forgotten its name. She did not even know the style of which her maid did hers.</p><p>"<em>I have forgotten many things</em>," she thought. She realized in horror that she might forget her mother. Her real mother. The lady Catelyn Stark. She could already scarce remember the times when she had dressed in beautiful gowns, stroked her hair, whispering shallow pleasures in her all the while. But Alayne could not think of that.</p><p>She remembered that her companion spoke to her, and turned her head to face Lady Myranda.</p><p>"What do you think?" she asked, smirking,"Is he to your interest? Though I imagine not. Harry the Heir has the eye of every maiden in the Vale. You'll be a fool to take to bed another man and risk that marriage." Her smirk grew larger, and Alayne grimaced," Though you'll be a bigger fool not to. Mayhaps my father could arrange for Harry to marry me afterwards." </p><p>Alayne did not know what to think. "<em>What would it be like</em>," she thought,"<em>to bed a man? Lord Tyrion never claimed his rights, but I imagine that Ser Harrold will</em>." But in her mind, she thought of another face, of a cruel smile that danced upon the man's scarred skin. He had taken other women before. That was certain for a man of his like. For most knights. But beneath that mask that he wore, beneath that snow-coloured cloak that she hoped meant nothing when Joffrey was king, she wondered how his skin may feel. When the green fires danced upon the Blackwater, when the screams of dying men had reached even her ears in the Red Keep, it may have been a welcome respite. The only dreams that she dreamt on the nights of her flowerings were of snow. Only snow, like that white cloak the Kingsguard wore.</p><p>"My lady," she responded courteously,"if you find him so admirable, why don't you take him to bed?"</p><p>"Mayhaps I will," she answered,"though I'd avoid the Moon Door when I do."</p><p>Alayne giggled, and looked to where the singer sat, at the edge of their high table. Lord Robert's feast had paled in comparison to the marvelous wonders that she attended in King's Landing. Joffrey's wedding feast had been the most splendid that she had seen, yet it bore her the most pain. The feast at the foot of the Eyrie was modest and comfortable, and reminded her of the feasts Lord Eddard had hosted in Winterfell. She dared not think any further.</p><p>The high table was glamorous, carved in the fashion so that at least twenty men could be seated at it. The falcon and moon of House Arryn hung on the wall behind the lord's seat, its glory prominent among the numerous other banners of the Vale's vassal houses. Lord Royce's runes gleamed brightly when illuminated by the firelight. Lady Waynwood's broken wheel, which hung under the shadow of the large Arryn banner, hung half in light, half obscured by the darkness of its lord's sigil. The Titan's Head that was the likeness of House Baelish lay in the complete darkness of a pillar's cast.</p><p>"<em>Could this be the gods' portent</em>," she thought. Her father had never the piety that the septons preached. The Father honored justice, the Mother kindness, the Warrior bravery. None were the guardians of wit and shrewdness, save perhaps the Stranger. Mayhaps that is why the gods have cloaked his banner in shadow, though when has the gods ever done more?</p><p>"<em>Where were they</em>," she wondered," <em>when Robb lay bleeding at the Twins, his body full of the wounds that were the work of the men who had offered him guest right</em>, <em>gasping for breath like Joffrey did</em>." This time she felt not relief nor ecstasy, but blind horror as her imaginary self tried to quench the bleeding, save her brother's life.</p><p>Alayne Stone's father had done for her more than the gods had ever done. He saved her from the lions and groomed her. She did not care if her father had not a holy man's heart, only that he would bring her home again. </p><p>She ripped her gaze from the banners on the wall, and looked to the lords seated at the high table. Lord Robert sat in the lord's chair, servants attending to his needs. The lord's chair was made of bronze, its headrest carved in the likeness of a falcon. It had once been the throne of the Mountain Kings, now only a tourney decoration. "<em>But it could be once more</em>," she pondered, as she thought of her father's plans. Lord Robert was much too short to reach even the falcon's neck, his head bobbing by the folds of its mighty wings. This was a throne made for a lord. An older man. A stronger man. Lord Robert had to have many cushions plopped on the hard bronze surface so as to be willing to sit. Several nurses attended to him, their dresses made of plain fabric and sky-blue in the likeness of all the household servants of House Arryn. Had this been a different occasion, she might have been among them, but this tourney was not just a tourney, and Lord Baelish wished his daughter to appear a lady. </p><p>Her father had claimed the seat to his left, as befitting his rank as Lord Protector. He sat in conversation with Lady Waynwood, Lord Royce, and Lord Belmore, his golden pin gleaming as he spoke. They were half of the Lords Declarant, but it seemed that their hostility had faded for a time. Her father had moved amongst the Vale lords every time a feast was held. Only upon several occasions did he speak directly to his daughter, as the rest was spent talking and japing whilst they ate.</p><p>To Lord Robert's right sat the newly appointed keeper of the Gates of the Moon, Lord Nestor Royce. Myranda's father. He wore a cloak of blue satin, clasped upon his chest by a brooch sporting his new sigil. His polished steel-sheened plate also gleamed, and his lined face moved to look at the knights and ladies assembled below.</p><p>The high table housed only the noblest of the attendees of the feast. Most of the guests were assembled upon the multiple benches that lined the Great Hall. Banners hung along the side of the hall, sporting sigils of lesser houses and even those of hedge knights. The knights wore their best dress armor, some of which were plain for the common hedge knights, and the ladies their most beautiful silken gowns. Many of the men gazed at the dark-haired beauty that they knew to be the Lord Protector's daughter. She did not care for their gazes.</p><p>Her eyes met Ser Harrold's, who was drinking with his foster brothers, his armor changed from the mud-strewn breastplate that he had worn in the afternoon.</p><p>Her betrothed caught her gaze, and raised his goblet. She did as well. The wine was young, the breweries having emptied their stock in the past day, and could only supply the less rich beverages. </p><p>The benches were packed with Lord Robert's guests, even though many already lost their place in the tourney.</p><p>"<em>They are eager to escape the cold</em>," she realized,"<em>Winter has come. They would rather savor the fires of Lord Robert's hearth than hearken on their cold journeys to their homes</em>." In the winter, she knew, the knights would all return to their hovels, eat their gathered grain, and wait for the season to pass. No man had a heart to fight in the cold. </p><p>"<em>I only need them to fight once</em>," she thought,"<em>Once, to win me back my home</em>."</p><p>She broke her gaze, and looked back to the food that were laid upon thee table. It was much richer than those provided on the benches below, having being the stock that were served to the highest lords. Winter was also coming, so the stores had to be rationed. Even so, this was the seventh course that was served this night. She had been full since the fourth, so her silver plate remained empty onwards. </p><p>A large  course of roasted boar dominated the seventh course. It was a fresh serving of meat, as the hunters had been lucky to encounter a boar on their hunt, even more so to hunt it down. They had expected the boar to appear at lower heights, having not expected to find it at the woodlands so high into the mountains. There were also servings of fish. Though they had to be smoked and transported from the major ports such as Gulltown, they were nevertheless an exquisite taste for those had lived off grain and stale vegetables for months. Other meats were present, all delights of a lord's table. The salted mutton that was the courtesy of the livestock farmers at the base of the Eyrie tasted rather strong. She had not eaten any of the beef or pork served. They adorned the silver platters on the sides of the main dish. She noted that Lord Horton Redfort had positioned himself close to the pork chops that were served, as to better service himself with the dish that were constantly replenished between courses. The dish did not lack of greens, even though they were more the fare of peasants. Lettuce, peas, parsnips, and beans were among all the many vegetables that were provided by Lord Robert. There were many more that she could not care to name. The air smelled of the nutmeg scented tints that her father had ordered placed, and the sweet scent of roasted meat also mingled with the scent. Though some remnant of the platters still lingered on the table, most were devoured by the ravenous guests. Many had not taken their noon meal, owing to watch the lists. She judged that the food down in the hall were having to be replaced all the more quickly. The kitchens were definitely strained these past days. The hall was full of hungry knights, many of whose appetites could appease two regular men. Some of the lords and knights at her table were still yet eating, their silver clinking and the wine in their goblets swished as they made to drink. </p><p>"Alayne," she heard Myranda ask, as the minstrel struck up another song with his harp," What do you think of the Vale?"</p><p>She quickly concealed the shock that had registered her face, silently praying gratitude that the gods had granted her face to be turned at the time. Some others may have saw, but they were too far away to hear Myranda's words. She would need to speak with her father after the feast. Suppressing her thoughts, she responded coolly,"What makes you think that I am not from the Vale?"</p><p>Myranda laughed,"It was fairly obvious from the beginning, so I had failed to see it. Firstly, contrary to the reputation that he had garnered, I had never seen Lord Baelish ever be near a woman. I don't think he harbors any lingering love for our beloved late Lady Arryn. She was a bore, and certainly ugly as well. I have seen him show no interest in any woman, except you. I do not believe that he is a man of honor and virtue. A man is not named Littlefinger to honor that. And I've seen the looks he gives you, the touches that a man would give his lover. He seems to wish that you were his, and to believe that you are his daughter, raised in the Vale. I have many ladies of the Vale, and I can safely state that you are not one of them."</p><p>"It is true," she replied," that I was not raised in the Vale. My mother raised me since I was a child, as my father had his business to attend to. My father only wished to sell the story that I was raised in the Vale so that I would not appear an outsider.  And I look too much like my mother. It is true that he loved her dearly, more than he had ever loved Lady Arryn, and sometimes he sees her in me. It amounts to nothing anyways." Her words were not necessarily lies, so they flowed easily from her mouth.</p><p>Myranda leaned close to her ear, as if to gossip,"You lie well, my lady, but not well enough," she spoke," Very well. I shall keep your little secret." She did not make any expression or response. Her father would deal with the matter. After the feast.</p><p>Minutes passed in gloomy silence, at least on her behalf. The rest of hall continued to bathe in the raucous of the feast's glory. </p><p>A voice broke out unexpectedly beside her, as the young knight seated to her left had scarcely offered a word during the entire feast. Each day, the high lords would invite some of the day's champions to dine with them upon the riches of the Lord Paramount's fare. Harry the Heir and his friend the hedge knight Ser Artys Longburrow had sat next to her the previous day. Though named after the winged knight, Ser Artys had none of his famed magnificence, sporting a pox-riddled face with scars both old and new.</p><p>"<em>Lord Tyrion did not have a comely face either</em>," she thought," <em>and he was the best of all of them</em>." </p><p>Ser Artys was no Lord Tyrion, and the knights had been unbearable. Like Joffrey, as she thought back to that day at Winterfell. But Ser Harrold had not yet shown any signs of madness or cruelty, so she supposed that she could wait until their wedding. "<em>Joffrey was kind too</em>," she thought,"<em>until he showed his true colors</em>."</p><p>Ser Arnold Arryn was the knight that spoke to her now, if she remembered correctly. A member of one of those offshoots of the Arryn dynasty over the centuries. They had no claim to the Eyrie now, and they otherwise had little money and even littler holdings. But they still wished to win glory, and brought back into the fold of the main line.</p><p>He had brown curls framing a rather angular face and sky-blue eyes that were common of the progeny of the Vale. He had rode in the lists that morning against Ser Oswell Kettleblack, unhorsing him in two passes. Alayne had been surprised that Ser Oswell, old as he was, had been able to make it past the melees, but his skill with his sword made up for his age. His lance seemed to fail as he became older, though, as the knight before her had unhorsed him fairly easily. </p><p>"Lady Alayne," he started cautiously,"I wonder whether you have awarded your favor to any other knight." </p><p>She guessed his purpose. He, like countless others before, would ask for her favor to wear. She would refuse, not knowing the meaning behind her father's words of not giving it to her betrothed. She tried to puzzle her father's words again, only to fail. </p><p>Alayne realized that the knight was waiting for her answer, and replied,"No, I have not given it to any other contender."</p><p>He nodded,"May I have the honor of wearing your favor in the lists tomorrow?"</p><p>Still unknowing of her father's riddle, she replied, as courteously as possible, as she was taught,"I am sorry, but I am afraid that my favor is already promised to another. I wish you, however, the best of fortune in your joust on the morrow." </p><p>"<em>That is what I have parroted for three days</em>,"she thought,"<em>repeating lies, like I was still the little bird, trapped in the cage of the unknown and powerful</em>." </p><p>The knight nodded again, understanding," If yours is promised to another, I shall seek another lady. I envy that knight greatly who would receive your favor. Any man would die for your love."</p><p>The last words of the knight resonated in her mind. "<em>Any man would die...</em>" she thought, and a stark realization came unto her. Her father had been speaking in riddles, perhaps testing her. She knew now who to seek. Alayne only had to wait until the dance, when all the tables could converge. </p><p>Dessert came a course later, and she ate little of the cheese, cream, and exotic fruit that was served. The dance that was held after every day's feast soon came.</p><p>"<em>It was the same old game</em>," she <em>thought,"but still bound to work, if the gazes that the knights gave me are any indication."</em> She guessed now what her father's purpose was, and it shocked her. Still, men do worse to win their thrones, and if this were the price to win hers, she would gladly take it.</p><p>She did not know whether it would be a year later, or several years when the fruit would have ripened, but only after she gave Ser Harrold an heir. It could not be traced back to her father. Ser Harlan Hunter served the same purpose to her father, but did not have a famous penchant for boys. She knew now, and only needed to wait for him to come, to ask her to a dance. It was only a matter of time, as every man in the room wished that beauty in their arms. </p><p>When their dance was over, she was approached with the same desire she had heard dozens of voices echo, for her favor in the tourney. This time she agreed, and fastened a strip of cloth to the man's arm. It held no banner, for Alayne was a bastard, but it was enough in the eyes of chivalry.</p><p>She looked to where her father sat, to see if she had done it right. Alayne saw her father smile his devilish smile, and give an almost imperceptible shake of the head.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. THE KING'S MAN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="bbWrapper">
  <p>Lightbringer burned unearthly bright. It dwarfed even the golden light of the rising sun that shone through the Wolfswood's canopy in the east. She shielded her eyes from the glare, though even beneath her closed eyelids and shielding hand her vision shone red.</p>
  <p>Asha had never seen such a light ever since Gylbert Farwynd had brought one of the Sailor's Stones to Pyke. Those bright rocks were the guide of galleys that sailed west near the Lonely Light. They shone with a brightness that would pale even the torches in the Drowned God's halls, for they were the only hope of a guide for captains who were foolish enough to sail west beyond the common range of Ironborn galleys. On a cloudless night, and if one were fortunate, one could even glimpse a glimmer of the distant isle on the westernmost shores of Great Wyk by the brightness of the Sailor's Stones.</p>
  <p>When the Sunset King, as the Crow's Eye had mockingly named him then, brought the Stone to Pyke, he had wished to gloat over his possession. He soon found that his trip was fruitless, as the Stone burned every man's pupils when the captain opened his ornate bronze chest in the Great Hall. Asha was certain that the captain had not thought through his plan. One cannot admire a jewel when one could not see.</p>
  <p>"Is this some grand scheme to blind us all?" her nuncle Aeron had jested,"Mayhaps if you blinded all the captains here, you would then become one of the famed ironmen. Otherwise, I daresay that even if little Asha could see, she could clobber you with that axe of hers."</p>
  <p>The day was before the Drowned God took her nuncle in his embrace, and released him holy and bitter. Asha herself was still half a girl then, the only child that had remained to Lord Balon. Rodrik and Maron had fallen, and she knew that even despite his laughter, her father remembered the grey frozen pupils of Lord Eddard Stark as the wolf lord abducted his last son.</p>
  <p>"<em>A son for a son </em>," were the words that Asha had heard her father's servants tell her that he had spoken when he received the raven from Theon telling that he had slain the Stark princes. They echoed her fool of a brother's words eerily.</p>
  <p><em>"I cannot repeat their folly </em>." she thought. Stannis would kill Theon, but it was justice, and it was deserved. Asha could not be like her father and brother, if she were to be the lord of the Ironborn.</p>
  <p>"<em>To be both a queen </em>," Asha thought," <em>and a thrall to the light of Stannis </em>."</p>
  <p>Lightbringer was in no way wrought by human hands. It was in that way alike to the Sailor's Stones, which were most certainly wrought with the magic of ancient ironborn mages whose arts did not pass to their descendants. No ironborn knew the true origins of the Stones, as only the rarest of them learned to write, and almost none upon the Lonely Light. The Citadel were hard-pressed to send maesters to the Iron Isles proper, and would never trouble to send their men to as far a place as the faraway western isle. The oldest records on the isle dated to only centuries before, and only oral legends told of the great Farwynds of old, those themselves heavily influenced by the wishes of its current rulers. None of them told of the origin of the Sailor's Stones.</p>
  <p>It is said that the great Ironborn king Harlag Hoare the Bloodbreaker, who broke the fleet of the Justmans which denied Ironman's Bay to the Ironborn for decades, was exiled once to the isle by his younger brother. King Harlag himself was a great sailor, and often voyaged to distant lands, sometimes for years in Essos and perhaps even far Sothyros. When his father died, his younger brother called a kingsmoot before he returned, and made himself king. When the Bloodbreaker's great galley <em>The Ironman </em>returned to the shores of Old Wyk, he was seized at once by his brother's men, and exiled to the isle of the Lonely Light, his brother not wishing the stain of being a kinslayer. It was said that few could reach the Lonely Light of old, and any of Harlag's loyal captains that might seek to find him would all be shipwrecked or lost by the treacherous currents of the Sunset Sea.</p>
  <p>The Bloodbreaker was said to have wrought the lighthouses upon the Lonely Light by his own hand, to house the light of the Sailor's Stones so that loyal captains that sought to find his place of exile would not be lost. It is Farwynd tradition to speak of the king that was said to have been crowned on the Withering Shore of the Lonely Light. King Harlag returned to the Isles, bringing with him the might of a fleet that his brother had thought unable to reach his brother. He cast the usurper from his throne after sinking his fleet in the strait between Saltcliffe and Great Wyk. When he captured his brother, he did not wish to curse himself as a kinslayer, so he cut off both of his brother's hands and sent him to where his brother had once exiled him, for no ironman would follow a king who cannot fight.</p>
  <p>"<em>What will be my lighthouse </em>," Asha thought," <em>to guide the hearts of my loyal men, and win me the Seastone Chair? </em>" But she had no Sailor's Stones, and the Crow's Eye was no Harlor Hoare.</p>
  <p>Asha had seen Stannis's sword before, as he had been often shown it to his men, but it never shone as bright as it did now.</p>
  <p>"<em>That sword is wrought by magic of his red god</em>," she thought,"<em>and he has blessed his blade now that Stannis has won a victory in his name</em>."</p>
  <p>She heard the raucous cheers of Stannis's men. Even the northmen, who were as monotonous and stale as her father had been, added their deep tones to the chant of Stannis's triumph.</p>
  <p>Asha dared open her eyes, as the red vision in her eyelids died, to see the aftermath of Stannis's victory. The glimmer of light that was Lightbringer, fortunately for her sight, faded to its original sheen. The burning banner of the flaming stag still shone, and some of its fragmented embers drifted onto the snow, heating and melting small patches. They glanced off the coats of the men assembled, as they were too small to light the furs on fire. The knight who held the banner, whose name she did not know, planted the flag in the snow, its iron shaft breaking the frozen soil. All the while, flickers glanced off his surcoat sporting a faded blue-green maelstrom.</p>
  <p>"<em>This is not the only battle, though, that will be fought this day </em>," she thought," <em>The horse was only Bolton's van. It will serve to strengthen the hearts of Stannis's men, but it was not bloodless upon Stannis's side either. I do not know what seized Bolton's mind to have him induce the folly of giving Stannis battle on the open field. If he were wise, he would abandon the battle and retreat to the castle. Leave the North to starve off Stannis, who would not be able to get past Winterfell's two walls. That is what I would do </em>."</p>
  <p>She could see in the distance a dense black mass that was sure to be Bolton's host.</p>
  <p>"<em>Do they seek the folly to crush Stannis's host this day </em>, " she wondered," <em>as their spies forced the king to march? </em>" It was not too late to retreat, as Stannis's host was still far away behind the tree line of the Wolfswood. Even so, the Boltons did not fall back to their walls.</p>
  <p>"<em>Are the Boltons, like Stannis, starved </em>," she pondered," <em>and are forced to march and give battle? </em>" It was unlikely, if Theon had been truthful. Yet Theon was wrong about the hosts that were to strike Stannis at the crofters' village, and what is to say that he, as a Bolton prisoner, would be privy to the condition of their meals?</p>
  <p>She heard shouts of "Azor Ahai" and the "Prince that was Promised" among the cheers for Stannis's victory. Those were the names of the prophesied heroes of the faith of the red god, as most of the knights present were among the followers of that lord of light.</p>
  <p>"<em>They seem to think that their hero is Stannis </em>," she mused,"a<em>nd I am inclined to think the same. I do not care if he wore a thousand monikers from a million men, only that he would be godless enough to win the priests of the sea </em>."</p>
  <p>Almost all the knights present drew their swords, and the few northmen that were in their midst did as well. If Asha had been allowed a blade, she may have drawn it as well to cheer <em>her </em>king.</p>
  <p>"<em>It was only yesterday</em>," she thought,"<em>when half the knights were doubting him </em>." Though they would never confide in the Iron Savage, she heard many of their words. Most of the men served at the Blackwater, and they spoke of how Stannis would lead them to defeat yet again. The king had pretended not to hear, and those men were the same knights that were now singing Stannis's praises the loudest.</p>
  <p>Asha gazed downwards at the wreckage that was once Bolton's vanguard. The cavalry that were fortunate enough to escape the initial break of the ice were fleeing to the cover of their host. They were harried by Stannis's archers that lay concealed in the Wolfswood. Their bows targeted the relatively unarmoured horses, and many more of Bolton's men fell to the fletchlings. Only a few were able to escape Stannis's net, about half a dozen arrow-strewn men limping upon their blooded coursers.</p>
  <p>As for the men that fell beneath the ice, they faced a harsher fate. The Bolton captain that led the charge at Stannis was subsequently one of the first to fall into the lake. Asha saw no sign of his armour resurfacing. The catapults and Stannis's engineers had done their duty well, and those not crushed by the first barrage of rocks were quickly sunk into the cold water by their impact on the ice.</p>
  <p>When she had once sailed into the excesses of the northern seas upon her Black Wind, Qarl had dared her to swim in the frigid seas. Asha had lasted barely five minutes, and was taken by an illness for weeks after. Her crew held a council and decided to forgo their expedition and sail home while she lay huddled under the furs of her bed. She was fortunate that the crew upon the Black Wind loved their captain. There were legends of other captains being taken ill, and the crew having seized the chance to stage a mutiny and murder them in their beds.</p>
  <p>The men that were sinking beneath the freezing lake had no such relief as she had had. Their armour that had protected them from Stannis's volleys now weighed them down and drowned them. As if in mockery, flickers of smoke rose from Asha's nose, a sign of warmth and life while the Boltons struggled in the cold. Those that managed to unclasp their plate and surface were swiftly shot by Stannis's bows, as the lighter load that helped them float forbade them any protection from the arrow tips. None made it ashore.</p>
  <p>She gazed at her king. Though his men cheered him with ever more passion, he wore the same face of stone that he always did. Some of the lines upon his face lessened, but he knew that the battle was far from over. Winterfell still lay beyond his grasp, and the bait to lure Bolton's van had not been without cost.</p>
  <p>He plunged Lightbringer into the snow, the Old Gods' curse parting to allow the blade its place. As bright as it glowed, Asha half expected it to radiate heat and melt the snow it touched, but it did now. The Sailor's Stone certainly felt warm to the skin when young Asha had dared brush her palm against it, turning her head away all the while to avoid its bright glare.</p>
  <p>Asha estimated that when the Karstarks reformed, even having themselves avoided the ice, would carry barely a tenth of the number that Stannis had sent in his vanguard. She wondered if they knew now that Stannis had sent them to die. When the revels gradually died, Stannis turned to one of the knights by his side.</p>
  <p>"Ser Corliss, I give you now command of our remaining horse," Stannis ordered,"Rally your men, and ride to Ser Richard. Tell him to sound the advance of our infantry. Tell him to array our forces as we had planned. Skirmish the enemy down with our longbows. Do not worry of their answer. As the northmen have foretold, the north wind is strong this day. If Bolton seeks to attack with his remaining horse, your knights shall counter his charge, shielding our infantry as they march to form their line. Though I do not think he will, as he has spent much upon his van. Let Bolton come to you, and when our forces clash, our aid will come."</p>
  <p>"And if they do not," Ser Corliss responded," or prove treacherous and join the enemy?"</p>
  <p>"I do not believe them to be faithless, as Lady Arya Stark is our guest. But if they appear as you say, it is up to Ser Richard, who I have given command of my main host, to decide his next move. It may very well be up to only our men to win this day. This may very well be my last battle, and the realm's last battle as well, for if my host falls, none shall stand against winter's blade. If Ser Richard is to be slain, the command shall pass to you. If you fall, to Ser Godry, and if he falls as well, then to Lord Brandon Norrey. If you should all be slain, then we have already lost, and I shall lead my reserve to give battle personally. If they are to win the day, they will not rest until they slay the king, and we cannot escape their light horse that would be sure to give chase. But should we be defeated, I shall use my death to dissuade them from further pursuit, and win a hundred more swords for my daughter to shield her claim until Ser Justin Massey can return from across the sea."</p>
  <p>Ser Corliss Penny departed, along with most of the knights that accompanied Stannis upon that hill. There would not be as many knights as Stannis would like, as horse meat had been their only rations for days.</p>
  <p>"<em>Though </em>," Asha thought," <em>Stannis and his men have found something. Some glad tidings that they did not wish to share with their captives. I do not know of the aid of which they speak of. I have seen many of the knights break their fast on bread, a ration the host had lost weeks ago </em>."</p>
  <p>A raven landed on the branches of the pines above them. After it loosened its bowels on an unsuspecting young knight under it, it called in a high-pitched croak. "Sea," it cowed, repeating Stannis's last word,"Sea, Sea, Sea." A quivering gave from the strong wind that buffeted the pines, and the raven fluttered again to find a safer lodge.</p>
  <p>"<em>Sea</em>," she thought,"<em>Even the ravens think to mock me, a kraken so far from</em> <em>sea</em>."</p>
  <p>Stannis's men dispersed from the lofty ledge, and only Stannis stood upon the snow, gazing at the enemy host.</p>
  <p>She found her gaze, as they followed Ser Corliss's men, rest upon her brother, who still stood kneeling in the snow, dumbfounded by what he had seen. His cloak that Stannis had given him had slipped past his shoulders and lay pooled and forgotten upon the ground, revealing his thin garments to the flurries of snow of the North's autumn. Pity welled up inside her, and she asked her escort to allow her to approach her brother. He muttered assent, and she rushed to Theon's side.</p>
  <p>Though he did unspeakable things, he was still in her heart the little brother that Asha had once cherished in her arms. Little Theon, who she and Lady Alannys had danced between them before Theon was taken and Asha learned to dance an axe instead.</p>
  <p>She gathered the soft furs in her half-frozen gloves and brought it to Theon's shoulders. Her little brother made no indication that he noted her aid, muttering quietly under his breath,"Lord Ramsay. Lord Ramsay. Lord Ramsay." His voice and body both shook from the cold that he seemed not to notice.</p>
  <p>"Theon," she whispered in his ear, brushing the white locks that were her brother's hair apart from his ear. Theon seemed to hear, and turned his head to look at her.</p>
  <p>Seeing her face, he whispered,"Sister?"</p>
  <p>Asha nodded, and as a sudden as a storm, Theon rose from the ground with strength that she had not known he had. Her little brother grasped her shoulders, lifting her body in accord with his own.</p>
  <p>"Sister," he croaked," You must flee. Lord Ramsay is coming. I saw his armour and his horse. The Bastard's Boys are coming with all the strength of the best of the North. Stannis can't protect you. His soldiers failed. You saw. They were fleeing from Lord Ramsay's men. You saw. Flee, before he comes, if you are truly my sister. I don't wish you to fall into his hands."</p>
  <p>Shocked by her brother's sudden outburst, Asha knew not what to say, and gaped like a whale. She saw two guards bearing the sigil of the flaming stag approach, and seize her brother's arms. She did not protest, as her brother shocked her with his strength. Theon screamed at the guards escorting him to run, drawing the attention of many of the knights as he was led to the tent that Stannis had assigned him.</p>
  <p>"<em>His death cell </em>," Asha thought," <em>to rot until Stannis kills him. But he is lost already to madness, and a blade may finally break the Bastard's mark on him </em>." Theon's hands had left wet smears of his sickness upon Asha's cloak, though no more than the common phlegm of her crew that would land upon her by the wind that accompanied the <em>Black Wind </em>. She wiped the liquid that had not been quickly frozen off with her gloves. It was thin and watery, and she quickly wiped it upon her breeches. Asha felt a hand fall upon her shoulder, and was marched to a trunk on the hill where she sat in silence.</p>
  <p>Asha gazed at the king's perch, and saw the the clansman known as Theo Norrey approach him and speak. Their voices were loud enough for Asha to hear.</p>
  <p>"Manderly may be loyal to the North, and he may have slain the Freys, but I do not trust that Lord Roose would give battle if he had known that hundreds of knights had turned. And he is sure to know, from the broken Freys that would have fled back to their castle."</p>
  <p>"I do not trust him either, as my Hand was ordered dead by that glutton," Stannis responded,"yet if he were to be treacherous, why would Bolton order him to strike the Freys. There are three hundred knights, and two thousand Freys. And our host would near escape unscathed."</p>
  <p>With every word that was uttered, Asha grew more puzzled. Her stay as a prisoner, even as the king's favored one, had denied her most messages from the host. All she knew was that no great battle had been joined.</p>
  <p>"At least Bolton's spies would have returned and gotten word to him after that night's farce," the clansman continued,"If the mermen horse were truly on our side, why would the sellswords abandon our cause? You were too swift to judge their sentence, and we do not know what truly transpired in that tent to make them turn. And they mean to give battle now, when the scales are clearly not in their favor."</p>
  <p>"<em>So Manderly has joined his force to Stannis. Theon did not lie. The blows did fall, though not upon Stannis. It fell upon the Freys </em>," Asha thought,"<em>It is no wonder that the king wished to give battle now </em>." Even so, she did not know why Lord Roose Bolton would give battle now. A stark realization came unto her, as she suddenly knew what had transpired.</p>
  <p>The same light seemed to already have shined on Stannis, and he grinded his teeth,"This is not Roose Bolton's plan. There is one reason why the foe means to give battle this day. Roose Bolton is not like to act rashly, if his acts in the Stark boy's war gave any credence to his character. Roose Bolton is dead, and his bastard cannot command all the loyalties of his men. Even so, I do not trust that the battle has already been won. If we lose this battle, we will neither the strength nor the time to besiege Winterfell. This is the bastard's deadliest gamble. It may as well be his largest blunder, or his greatest triumph. Had he not wished to destroy my host upon the field, the North itself would destroy it in due time. The bastard is rash, and means to flaunt his strength to all the North to command their fear."</p>
  <p>Stannis continued,"You may be wondering why I had not given you a command in the battle. If the host falls this day, them I must need to have my will sent to my daughter, who will be the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms upon my death. I dare not trust it to any of my southern knights, as they know not how to brave the colds of the North. The extra swords my daughter could survive without, but this she must have if she were to be queen. If by any chance this army fails, you must find the swiftest mounts that we still hold, and make certain that these letters make their way to Castle Black."</p>
  <p>He produced the letters from within his cloak, each bearing a red seal of the flaming stag,"I dare not tell you its contents in case you are captured by the Boltons. I cannot trust this to raven, as ravens can be lost or hunted. You are not to try to break any of the two seals until you reach the holdfast of Lord Snow. If you have any chance of being captured by the flayed men or cannot reach the Wall, slide your finger around the circle of the seal. It will burst into flame and crumple to ash within seconds. But that is only a last resort. When you reach Castle Black, and are greeted by Lord Snow, you shall declare my decree that his queen and heir must come to the castle from Eastwatch. Only Lady Melisandre, the woman in red if you do not know her, is capable of breaking the seal. She is to break the seal of the first letter and read it in light of an assembly of every man of note in Castle Black. The second letter you shall wait until Queen Selyse arrives, and give it to her to read privately. She is to make of its contents as she wishes. You are to take a company of men of your choosing, and Lady Greyjoy as well. Do you understand?"</p>
  <p>Theo Norrey took the letters, then glared at Asha," I will take your will if the battle is lost, if that is what your grace wishes. But why should I take the krakenspawn."</p>
  <p>"When the first letter is read," Stannis responded," you shall know. That is my will. Do you understand?"</p>
  <p>"I had wished,"Norrey replied," to lead my kin in battle with the traitors. I wished to feel the head of a Bolton splatter at my feet, knowing that with each man I killed, I would be one more step closer to avenging Owen. I had wished to tear down the Dreadfort brick by brick, and when it is reduced to rubble, march to the Twins and do the same. The North remembers, and there are still men of quality in the North, who do not forget that it is Starks that lords of Winterfell. Since you have found Arya, I shall fight for her to the end. But I fear that we shall lose this day, and that I may die for nothing. Mors is a good man, honest and true unless you are a crow pecking at his eyes, but I do not trust that his men can check the mermen should they prove treasonous. We northmen are men of loyalty, but the Manderlys are different. Southrons and merchants, and it is in their nature to be loyal to their gold and advancement. Loyalty to their liege that had fed and clothed them in lands and silver is foreign to them. If it is your wish that I deliver the letters to Castle Black should this host be defeated, even with the krakenspawn in tow, I shall."</p>
  <p>Asha cared not to hear her insults, and turned her ears away from their words. She had heard of many such words from the knights of Stannis, so much that it had grown commonplace. She saw nothing to do until Stannis's host either won or lost the battle.</p>
  <p>"<em>At the very least </em>," she thought," <em>Stannis ordered the clansman take me as well. Jon Snow may not take it well to a kraken at his castle, but it is better to deal with one bastard than another. Theon, though, I suppose, would die. A mercy, but who will visit it upon him if Stannis's host should fall? </em>"</p>
  <p>She gulped, as she realized who will have to do the deed.</p>
  <p>"<em>Theon is already dead </em>,"Asha prayed," <em>This is no murder, only a mercy. Perhaps the Drowned God would not look upon it as a kinslaying </em>." The alternative would be to leave Theon to the mercy of the flayed men, a deed she was loath to do. She prayed that a northman, if Stannis should fail, would find the courage to slay who they see as a turncloak that slew his princes.</p>
  <p>"Your Grace," she heard another voice say from Stannis's perch. She looked back, and saw that the clansman had left. A young knight stood in his place.</p>
  <p>He spoke,"Do you believe that we could truly trust the mermen? They were Bolton men, and there is no reason to abandon their masters. We still have hundreds of men that make up our reserve. I say that before the mermen could betray us, we strike their camp and neutralize the threat, so that our men upon the field could triumph against the Boltons."</p>
  <p>The knight who spoke wore the mud-strewn surcoat of a green turtle upon a faded green cloak. Ser Ewis Estermont, if her memory served her correctly, one of the grand-nephews or grandsons of the Old Turtle himself.</p>
  <p>The Old Turtle was the moniker that the Ironborn gave Lord Eldon Estermont when he had still commanded the fleet of the Stormlands. He had been one of the ironmen's deadliest enemies in her father's first failed rebellion.</p>
  <p>The Craven Turtle he was named for a time, as he was the man who led her nuncle Victarion's fleet into the straits of Fair Isle by feigning defeat and cowardice. It was there where Stannis and Paxter Redwyne surrounded and crushed her nuncle's ships. But that name proved only an insult given by defeated and bitter men, for two weeks later, Lord Estermont led only small portion of the Royal Fleet to defeat her nuncle's Rodrik's attempt to relieve the Siege of Pyke with the last remnants of the Iron Fleet. Her father had ordered his goodbrother to blockade Ironman's Bay with a good portion of his fleet, and lost ships from other battles strengthened his host as he returned, but he was still defeated by the shores of his own island.</p>
  <p>The Ironborn ceased to call him the Craven Turtle, and due to his age, named him the Old Turtle instead. An insult by Ironborn tradition, as her men value the young and strong. But it was laced with praise as well, for an old captain is a captain whose ship never sunk, and whose glory was never tarnished. Her grandfather was not named the Old Kraken out of spite. Her father may have called him such out of hatred for his greenlander ways, but her father was a fool.</p>
  <p>Ser Ewis was still a young turtle though, and looked nothing like a sailor, sporting a long and sinewy build. A sword hung at his side, intricately patterned with golden and silver-threads upon its hilt and guard. The knight wore no red that she could see, so she presumed that he was not a follower of the red god. If she were still a captain, and faced him in a raid, his arms and armour would be sure to be worth the labour of the iron price.</p>
  <p>Stannis broke his gaze from the lands afar where Ser Richard's men were yet to appear.</p>
  <p>"If the mermen do not mean to betray us, then your attack would most certainly harden their hearts. And you risk our entire battle with your foolish rashness. The bastard has given us the choice to make the first move, and that is his doom. That is how I crushed the krakens at Fair Isle and the wildlings at the Wall. That did not avail me at Blackwater, but this day there is no horse to save them save our own, which I will not risk upon your folly."</p>
  <p>"<em>That is what I worry of </em>," Asha thought,"<em>That he is too certain. If Stannis has made common cause with the mermen, is it true loyalty and change of heart, or trickery of the bastard to lure Stannis into battle and pay him with treachery. </em>"</p>
  <p>These mind games were always the most tiresome for Asha as a captain. To judge the strength of a village is testament to an Ironborn captain's skill. She gazed at the banner of Stannis's stag, whose last cinders were melting what remaining snow were near its feat, the cloth having served its purpose and burned away. One of the knights heaved the now-empty pole off its crevice in the soil, and replaced it with another banner of a flaming stag, this one not given to true flame.</p>
  <p>The young knight that had appealed to Stannis shook his head and descended from Stannis's perch. She saw the knight give her a strange stare, and then turn to his companions that extended their arms to point and gape at what would soon be a field of blood.</p>
  <p>The Wolfswood itself eventually gave way to the flat fields around Winterfell. They stood on a hill northwest of Winterfell's walls. Stannis's men had let the Bolton van through his lines so that he may spring his trap. The true bulk of Stannis's host now issued now the folds of the Wolfswood. Banners of the flaming stag flew, and here and there she could see others. They marched as any greenlander host would, orderly and slow. A red crab, a green tortoise, a blue sailfish, three golden buckles, a crow in flight, and many others adorned the southron knights as they marched. Of the northmen she could see a mailed fist, a chained giant, and an iron tree. The clansmen served as Stannis's true vanguard, themselves bearing no banner except a few bolts of cloth. The men in the front carried heavy ironwood shields that towered to be of equal height of a man, a courtesy of the woodmen of Lord Forrester. Horns blew, and the remaining knights of Stannis reared their horses in anticipation of their battle. The host stretched for several leagues, and this was only the pinprick of their assembled might.</p>
  <p>"<em>Stannis's men </em>," she thought," <em>and my men as well, if they live another day to see me on the Seastone Chair </em>." She saw more emerge from the forest as the first began to organize their ranks. Messengers would timely come to Stannis from the host below, and Stannis would send them back with his orders. A figure was riding amongst the host below, which she supposed was Ser Richard Horpe, whom Stannis had given the command. At her place, she saw some of the knights that called themselves the queen's men array themselves on the ledge of the hill and raise their arms in prayer. One among them was the loudest, who she saw was a red-caped knight named Ser Raymond Fell. Most of the queen's men had left with Ser Corliss, as they were not only the most holy, but also Stannis's most skilled knights. Ser Godry or Ser Corliss would normally lead the prayers, but now they both led companies of men on the battlefield.</p>
  <p>"Lord of Light," Ser Raymond Fell boomed," Shine your holy light upon your humble servants and bless their sword arms with courage. Smite the enemies of your devoted men with your heavenly strength, as you broke the ice and slew the men that sought to slay your chosen king. Rust their blades, and make heavy their hearts that are infested by the ghosts of the gods of darkness and evil. Issue your holy grace upon this battlefield, as their servants beg you, for the night is dark and full of terrors."</p>
  <p>His voice's tone was swiftly carried away by the strong wind, but his companions took up his chant and echoed the words to boom upon their hill,"For the night is dark and full of terrors."</p>
  <p>"May the Lord bless us,"Ser Raymond continued, and the hundred cloaks that were the queen's men rose. The lit their torches, but the wind blew south, and Asha was still cold.</p>
  <p>"<em>The night is dark and full of men </em>," Asha thought,"<em>That is the only terror I fear </em>."</p>
  <p>Those that did not follow the red god looked on in silence, and Stannis stood unmoving to the prayer that besought his supposed Lord, eyes centring on his host's march. Asha suddenly found within her courage to speak with her king. In her cell, she knew not of any tidings that may have fallen upon the king's ears in the last days, and she knew not of the mermen who had seemingly turned their cloak. There might be much more that she did not know, and her curiosity was not sated.</p>
  <p>She rose, and felt the touch of steel upon her neck. Her guard spoke," Lady Greyjoy. What do you wish to do?" She inwardly groaned, as her guard had always tailed her, even when she had to make use of the privy.</p>
  <p>"I wish to speak with the king," she answered, and felt the touch of the sword recede. The guard did not sheathe it though, his weathered eyes maintaining their tired gaze. She made for the place where Stannis stood alone, her strides cutting wet prints in the snow. Some flurries blew in to her hood, and pushed away the glistening white strands of dark hair that glimmered before her face.</p>
  <p>"Lady Greyjoy," Stannis spoke as she approached,"What do you wish to say?"</p>
  <p>"Your Grace," she responded," As your bannerman, I was wondering if could be privy to your plans? I did not know that you made common cause with the mermen."</p>
  <p>Stannis nodded, sheathing Lightbringer that he had held in his grasp ever since Bolton's van fell in the ice. The air darkened before them.</p>
  <p>"Very well," he spoke,"Lady Greyjoy, I suppose that your company is not distasteful. I miss the presence of my Hand sorely. Lord Davos Seaworth was my best man, contrary to whatever the soldiers or nobles may say. They resent him for earning his place with talents they lack, and they resent me for raising a smuggler to nobility, no matter how skilled that smuggler may be. Not only did he always speak his truth, he made a welcome respite from the endless boasts of young cattle who think they are lions, and the braying of old mules that think they are wise men. Those are the knights that I bring from the south, and the northmen are not much better. They are bitter, consumed by revenge and mourning, either for their men that were slain in the war or the Twins. I too am bitter, as I lost a brother and Seven Kingdoms. Two bitter men do not make happy company."</p>
  <p>"I think you may have heard," he continued," that I sent Lord Davos to White Harbour and treat with Lord Manderly. The fat lord was said to have killed him in order to kiss the feet of the flayed men. Now, you see that the his men has joined our side. Many of my men doubted the truthfulness of their claims to friendship and alliance, but I know the truth. I only say this now because battle is soon to be joined, and the bastard is too late to change plans. Most of my blooded knights have marched to battle, and only few tested men remain here to form the reserve The unblooded knights here would cause more ruin to us than the enemy. They are unreliable, as they are young and quick to anger, many of which still carrying a boy's heart. Those men I also do not trust to all be true to me, as the sellsword captains and Karstarks are not the only traitors in my camp. Even if one of them is now the bastard's agent, he would not be able to carry the tidings in time for the bastard to prepare."</p>
  <p>Asha saw below that thousands more of Stannis's men had emerged from the forest, the knights that bore once-bright armour now snow-covered and white flanking the emergence of the host. A gallop of a horse's hooves suddenly sounded behind them, and they turned to find a messenger bearing down on them. The messenger dismounted his horse and rushed to Stannis. The rider shot her a glare, and then bent the knee to the king.</p>
  <p>"Rise,"Stannis commanded, and the man rose,"What does Ser Richard wish to report?"</p>
  <p>"I have come to report that all of our companies have marched successfully by your order, and none are yet unfit for battle. But in many companies, there are men who have deserted their shields and banners, fearing to engage with the enemy."</p>
  <p>"Take a census, and take note of all the men who deserted," Stannis ordered," If ever they are to reappear in the ranks after the battle, Lord Snow is in dire need of men along the Wall, and they shall join the Watch. They are lucky that we need all men in the wake of winter, and I will not take their heads."</p>
  <p>Stannis moved his gaze to Bolton's host that lay by the walls of Winterfell,"I am glad to hear that our plan has been executed successfully thus far. Tell Ser Richard that he may do as he likes within the quarter of our plan. Ser Richard is to be the judge of when our host would stop and harry the enemy with arrows, as they cannot respond. Force him to come to him, and the mermen shall do all the rest. We shall win this day, and when we return to the southern kingdoms, let the word go out that any loyal man are to receive full pensions befitting five normal years to help them brave the winters. They left their fields to serve me, and I must return the favour."</p>
  <p>The messenger nodded mounted his horse, galloping away swiftly. Minutes passed in silence, and Asha found that the men below had almost completed their march from the trees, their banners streaming as black ravens fled the tips of the trees. The Boltons stood unmoving, and Asha was disturbed by her lack of knowledge of their intent.</p>
  <p>Asha sought to continue their prior converstaion,"If you fear that traitors would hear, who is the guard on me that you keep so near?"</p>
  <p>"Ser Claymund Waters,"Stannis responded," is one of my most trusted men, and that is why I had assigned him to you. Many in my host still call for your head, or for you or your brother to be burned. I would trust him with my life, perhaps even the life of my daughter. He was a member of my guard during those dreadful days of Storm's End in Robert's Rebellion. When so many deserted to feast with the roses, he did not. When chaos were about to devour the castle when Ser Davos brought the onions, as every man wished himself a meal, he stood by my side as we caught and hanged the troublemakers. He is loyal in every sense of the word. He served my brother Renly well after he became Lord of Storm's End. Even though Renly was an usurper and traitor, he served him out of duty as he was bid. When Renly fell, he did not flock to my banner like so many others, and served the castellan Ser Cortnay against me. It was only when Ser Cortnay fell and Storm's End yielded, and he was bid to serve me as his new lord did he change his allegiance. I trust that if Renly ordered him to kill me then and there, he would. His duty lies above all, loyalty to his lord, and that is all I ask of him. Its vexes me sometimes, that I trust are bastards and smugglers more than the lords in my service."</p>
  <p>"What about you,"he asked,"Lady Greyjoy? Will you be so fine a companion as Ser Davos?"</p>
  <p>"I would wish," she replied," to be as fine a companion as Ser Davos had been, but I do not know your tale."</p>
  <p>The bright light that shimmered at dawn now darkened, the sun draped by the cover of the clouds.</p>
  <p>"Your brother did not lie," Stannis said," Bolton sent men to attack, and I had prepared. They were sure to fall. A night lamp to lure them, and broken ice, the same trap that you saw this very morning."</p>
  <p>"<em>False light </em>," thought Asha," <em>alike to what the ironmen of old had used to misguide unwanted ships and wreck them upon the rocks of the shore. False light that is imposing and bright, to mask the humble and soft true guides. The Codds had once crafted a ring of lighthouses upon the Iron Isles. For centuries, no foreigner could sail to the shores of the Iron Isles at night. Only ironmen knew which lights were true and which were false </em>."</p>
  <p>"The queen's men,"Stannis continued," urged me to burn the heathen Weirwood on the Isle as a tribute to the Lord of Light. Ser Godry himself urged that I should burn one of you krakens, or an unbeliever to have the Lord of Light bless the winds and carry the light to the Freys so that they may fall. The blow fell. and the scouts found the next a day a snow-strewn heap of swords, shields, horses, and dead men. It was in a ravine, as Ser Hosteen had been too bold and took the shorter road. They were harried first by Manderly bows that the knights carried along with their swords, and found that both sides of the ravine were blocked. When the sun rose only the remnants of a massacre were lit by the dawn's light."</p>
  <p>The clouds had darkened the sky altogether, masking any sign that the sun had risen hours before. The snowfall deepened, and the winds grew stronger. The banners of Stannis's host dipped as the banner carriers felt the stronger wind haul upon their strength. The host stopped and formed, and Asha saw the glimmer of the fletchlings of a thousand arrows fly towards the Boltons. The enemy attempted to answer, but many of their arrows fell short due to the northern wind. Few in Stannis's ranks fell. But for the Boltons, the full wrath of Stannis's archers were visited upon them, and even though Asha could not see far due to the blinding snowfall, she believed that many of her foes lay slain by the bows. Their commander seemed to realize their disadvantage, and Asha saw Bolton's host advance, presumably to attack Stannis's men.</p>
  <p>"<em>The battle begins </em>," she thought," <em>and Stannis has the advantage of the defence. He will continue to have it, all the while shooting the Boltons with his bows. The bastard's blunder is great </em>."</p>
  <p>"A messenger came,"Stannis said," to our outermost camps, bearing greetings from the Manderly commander, and asked for a meeting. Suspecting a trick, I did not go, and sent one of my knights with a retinue. He returned bearing tidings that the mermen wished to meet the king yet again. They said that the mermen wished to present the fact that they do not feign loyalty to the usurpers of the North anymore, and are ordered by their lord to aid us in our attack. Knowing Lord Roose's shrewdness, I did not allow them to set camp near my host. They provided us with supplies and men as proof of their loyalty. The men saw this day broke their fast on their courtesy. Theirs, and the rations we scavenged from the Freys. I suspected them of treachery, but one of their men showed me something, and I knew at once that their cause was true."</p>
  <p>Stannis withdrew from his cloak another letter, this one's blue-green seal broken. He pointed southeast, as if to indicate their host's march. Their host had still not moved, but the bastard's did, as their ranks were continuously thinned by the skirmish. Stannis's men still held the high ground, so they did not move.</p>
  <p>"I did not speak of this to any of my commanders, for fear that the crucial tidings that is in this letter would become known to Bolton spies," Stannis stated evenly," When I saw this, I knew that the battle was already won, but arrogance is the bane of victory, and I needed to still prepare for any possible defeat. Lord Manderly has said to have slain my Hand, but now I know that the claim is not true."</p>
  <p>He handed Asha the letter with his free hand, and she took it. The seal was already broken, and she fumbled to find the sliver of yellow parchment that Stannis had wagered his army on. The light was dim, so she squinted her eyes to read the words. The print was rough and slightly unkempt. It was written with black ink, and she moved her head to shield the parchment from the flurries of snow that would otherwise land on the paper.</p>
  <p><em>King Stannis </em>,"it read,</p>
  <p>
    <em>As your loyal Hand, I must report on the mission that you set me upon to win you the swords of White Harbour. I cannot say that I have succeeded, yet I also cannot say that I have failed. I have spoken with Lord Manderly, and he cannot openly declare for you, not whilst his son is held prisoner by the Freys. You might hear that Lord Manderly has killed me to please the lions and weasels, and hung my head and hands on spikes outside the city walls. I write to tell your grace that it is all a farce, and Lord Manderly is not to be held accountable for my death should you conquer Winterfell. The lord does not love the Boltons, and he means to declare for your grace as soon as his son is returned to him. That, and when I fulfill my mission.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>There is another matter that Lord Manderly has told me. Brandon and Rickon Stark are not dead. Theon Greyjoy did not murder the boys at Winterfell. I journey to retrieve them, and Lord Manderly promises that as soon as his rightful liege lord is returned to him, he will lend you his knights. The North Remembers, and the hearts of the Northmen are true.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Signed,</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Hand of the King,</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Davos Seaworth</em>
  </p>
  <p>"The North remembers," she whispered.</p>
  <p>"The North remembers," Stannis echoed.</p>
  <p>But a figure of doubt rose in Asha's mind, and she spoke it,"What if Ser Davos was coerced by his captors to write this, to have you falsely trust the mermen?"</p>
  <p>"He wrote this with his right hand,"Stannis replied,"the hand of which I took his fingers, the hand of which most men would think he could not write with."</p>
  <p>But it was another phrase that caught Asha's gaze as she reread the Hand's words.</p>
  <p>"<em>My brother was not that fool that I thought him to be </em>," Asha thought," <em>and there is still hope for him </em>."</p>
  <p>"Brandon and Rickon Stark are not dead," she spoke," Theon did not slay them."</p>
  <p>Stannis nodded, and replied,"That is why I had delayed his execution. I dared not spare him at the very moment, as I would need to reveal the contents of the letter to placate the northmen, contents of which could be then privy to Bolton eyes. Your brother is innocent at least of those charges. When I take Winterfell, I shall announce the contents of Ser Davos's letter. The northmen will still call for his death as a turncloak, but I shall deal justice as it is due."</p>
  <p>"<em>Theon is not lost, then, </em>" she thought," <em>I may not be able to win him a throne by the kingsmoot, but at the very least my mother can see her youngest son one last time </em>." She wanted to draw that third knife from Lady Alannys's heart and heal the wound. Though Asha was never gentle and could not handle the delicacies of nurturing, she hoped that she could at least care for her mother so that she would pass with a glimmer of hope and a shore after a sea of grief.</p>
  <p>She watched as the Bolton host approached their own, banners blazing the flayed man, the twin towers that were sure to be the remnants of the Frey host, and an array of the banners of other northmen.</p>
  <p>The hosts clashed.</p>
  <p>As if in answer, a host of horsemen began to emerge from the Western Wolfswood. They bore banners of the white merman. But another banner rose in their midst, bearing the sigil of the flayed man.</p>
  <p>Panic seized the knights present at the hill, and they rushed to Stannis's side.</p>
  <p>"We must mobilize our reserves and shield our flank," one said," otherwise the traitors will fall upon us and we shall be defeated." Stannis held up a hand, and they all fell silent. They watched as the hosts below engaged in battle, and Manderly's men filed from the trees. She knew their purpose, but Stannis's knights did not.</p>
  <p>"We did not give the Lord an unbeliever," Raymond Fell spoke," and he has cursed us with treachery."</p>
  <p>He raised his hand to point at Asha, and shouted,"Give the kraken to the fires, so the Lord may lift the curse."</p>
  <p>He drew his sword, and steel sang as the other queen's men echoed him to draw their swords as well. They made to move on Asha.</p>
  <p>"Sheathe your swords, or you will be branded as traitors for drawing steel upon your king,"Stannis commanded,"I shall take it now that you are cheering my victory with your blades. Sheathe your swords. The god will have his due, but not now."</p>
  <p>But his fervor would not cease,"A king of unbelievers and heathens. You are no king of mine."</p>
  <p>It seemed that madness had possessed the man, and his eyes glared with red rage. Stannis's guard also drew their swords, preparing to fight the mutiny.</p>
  <p>"<em>And am I to gape and be saved</em>," Asha thought,"<em>like some weak and defenseless greenlander maid</em>." She felt a sinking need for her axe. Stannis drew Lightbringer, and the tension seemed as palpable to freeze the air.</p>
  <p>Suddenly, they saw Manderly host hoist the dreaded Bolton banner up high. A host of horsemen approached it with torches, and lit the banner on fire. As the enemy's sigil burned, two new ones raised by the knight. One was a banner bearing a flaming heart that was the stag of Stannis. The other was also raised, streaming by the north wind, bearing the likeness of the grey wolf of Winterfell.</p>
  <p>The mutinous knights gaped, and then sheathed their swords.</p>
  <p>"Ser Ewis," Stannis called, to a knight that were not among the would-be mutineers, and had drawn his sword to aid Stannis,"I give you command of my reserve. You are to aid the battle below, and support our host in wherever Ser Richard or the other commanders deem necessary for your forces to be."</p>
  <p>"Yes, Your Grace," the knight responded, and left the hill to command Stannis's force.</p>
  <p>Asha's cloak billowed before her, and expanse of black fabric. Stannis's line had held during the first Bolton onslaught, the northmen savoring their bitter revenge with their axes and spears. The only portions of the line that had shown signs of breaking were the lines of the southrons, but they rallied when they saw their aid. What reserves the Boltons had attempted to halt the Manderly charge were fruitless, and thundered through the snow.</p>
  <p>The snow tasted sweet on her tongue, a taste she had not the pleasure of savoring ever since her last victory at Deepwood in her father's invasion all those months ago.</p>
  <p>"<em>The Crow's Eye</em>," she thought,"<em>The kraken's due will be sowed. A kinslayer's due will come. I will avenge my father, and take for myself the Seastone Chair by the iron price of a queen. I am not my father, nor any of House Greyjoy that came before, and I will reap your victory</em>."</p>
  <p>"I am no king of yours?" Stannis turned and spoke plainly as if he had not just won the day.</p>
  <p>The men had begun to cheer, but now they felt their king's stone-cold gaze, and looked to the man that was their leader to almost instigate the mutiny.</p>
  <p>"Take him away," Stannis ordered," I shall judge him later. The rest will come with me. Winterfell is not yet ours, and we must look to the siege."</p>
  <p>Asha watched Stannis and his men depart the perch, and looked in the distance to the battlefield. It was still a bitter clash, as the bastard would not order a retreat. A line attempted to form to halt the Manderly charge, but they broke as soon as they saw the knights. The mermen collided with the unprotected flank of the bastard's line.A rout ensued, and much of the Bolton line collapsed. She saw a few horsemen flee from the Bolton banners, riding for the gates of Winterfell. Men began to break, and the remaining horse of Stannis began to run them down.</p>
  <p>Though it was a victory, a soft taste of bitterness still welled within her. Asha rued that neither she nor her Ironborn would have the glory of the battle.</p>
  <p>"<em>But there are still many fights to come</em>," Asha thought,"<em>Stannis's war is far from over, and mine has just begun</em>."</p>
  <p>The cheers that Stannis had slain were revived as the soldiers in their encampment registered their victory. As the light began to break again through the clouds, the darkness began to be lifted. She was led by Ser Claymund to wherever Stannis had commanded him to take her. The raven once again landed on the pines above her after its lengthy departure.</p>
  <p>"King, King, King," it croaked, echoing the soldiers' cheers.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>Ser Richard Horpe was dead. It was said amongst the men that while trying to rally a contingent of broken southrons, a stray Bolton arrow found his corset, and he tumbled off his horse. The stampede of broken men trampled his corpse, if he were not already dead from the wound. The command fell to Ser Corliss Penny, who also fell in the midst of the Bolton assault. Thought the knight was pompous and arrogant, Asha could not help but admire his valiance in those last moments when he caved the skulls of several Boltons with a broken shield that he had found when he lost both his sword and his horse. Ser Godry Farring took up the command after Ser Corliss's fall, and rallied Stannis's remaining men to hold off the Bolton attack until the mermen could arrive. She would not be surprised if the knight also took up the name "the Boltonslayer" after the battle. The northmen fought more valiantly, and took the brunt of the casualties. The clansmen formed the vanguard, and so were hit the heaviest. Many of their chieftains fell, chief among them Hugo Wull who was called the Big Bucket, Amron Harclay who was named the Moonslayer, and Torren Liddle.</p>
  <p>The northmen told each other the tales of the Liddles' fall. The chieftain had stubbornly wished to be placed upon the front line. His son the Middle Liddle joined him. Little Liddle would have accompanied him as well, if he had not ordered that his youngest be placed further back to preserve his life. The Liddle and his son who had joined him fell to Bolton blades, but they both took at least ten men down with them. It is said that the Old Liddle had his arm cleaved at the shoulder by a sword, but still fought as fiercely as the savage creatures that adorned many of the clansmen armour and furs. He had taken the axe of his fallen son, having lost his own cleaving the mail of a Bolton, and wielded it one-handed. He fought until he himself bled to death from his wound. The clansmen japed that the Bolton cowards had cut a wide ring about his corpse until they were certain that the body would not move and the Liddle was dead.</p>
  <p>Asha was certain that the youngest Liddle would have trouble reining in the clansmen that his father left him, as he himself avoided the chief carnage and thus won less honour and renown.</p>
  <p>"<em>May their gods</em>," she prayed,"<em>whether old or new, bless their souls in the halls of their passing. And even if some of them chance upon your halls, O Drowned God, you'd better find them a bloody place upon your banquets in your undersea palace</em>." Her father might even approve of the men fallen today, having died in the manner an Ironborn were supposed to die, with blade in hand after winning their kingdom a victory.</p>
  <p>Stannis had thought to prepare a siege of the castle and assault its depleted forces the next day. But an hour after the defeat of the sally, a white flag was raised upon Winterfell's walls. She saw a raven rise from Winterfell's tall ravenry, and it looked to fly north. Asha could not guess its purpose, for the far north consisted mostly of Stannis's men. Stannis's archers did not seek to shoot it down, and it passed unmolested. The pink banners that adorned the walls were burnt or loosened.</p>
  <p>It may have been the work of Stannis's men that she knew now had already been disguised in Winterfell, or perhaps that of lords that turned once they knew defeat was certain.</p>
  <p>"They had found a forest of Frey helms," Ser Claymund told her," with hundreds of well-fitting breastplates and other armour devices that were not yet battered beyond use. His grace wished that some of our men be disguised as broken Freys, and flee to Winterfell to act as his agents."</p>
  <p>Whatever the cause, Winterfell fell to Stannis, and his men had already entered to secure the walls and keep to greet their king's arrival. They were to make certain that there was no treachery upon their surrender. When the banner of the flaming stag was raised upon the walls, Stannis prepared to enter his conquered castle in a grand ceremony. They had gathered what remaining horses and banners they could scavenge after the battle to create as formidable a procession as possible.</p>
  <p>Stannis rode in the front, his sword sheathed but crown gleaming eerily bright. He looked the image of the greenlander Father come to life, with his black beard and glowing with heavenly light. Ser Godry Farring, having distinguished himself in command, received the honor of carrying Stannis's banner at his side. A line of both southrons and northmen followed the king's wake, ordered in the presence of their merit upon the battle.</p>
  <p>Asha was also among the first line of lords that were to receive Winterfell's surrender. She was placed near the back of the line, as she had not fought, next to a red-cloaked young knight who had also stayed with Stannis during the course of the battle. A horse was given her, a black palfrey with white streaks running down its sides. Not as glamorous as her former dark courser she had ridden in Pyke and Deepwood Motte, but it was a fine steed.</p>
  <p>They passed the field where the main battle had taken place, and saw there the array of broken swords, cloven shields, and desecrated corpses that were yet to be cleaned. The clouds had fully parted, revealing the sun shining in all its glory. The snows, both those clean and those stained with blood, shone bright with the sun's light, and she had to avert her eyes from its glare.</p>
  <p>The line before her bent to meet the road that would lead to Winterfell's northern gate.</p>
  <p>"<em>The Kingsroad serves a king yet again</em>," Asha thought,"<em>Stannis may finally match his claim with his might, and march openly upon the road that was laid for a proper host</em>. <em>When his men hid in the Wolfswood, he was only another pretender to be brushed off by the men who held the crown. But now that he has won Winterfell and the North, he is a king</em>."</p>
  <p>Their remaining able host had all been rallied to attend Stannis's arrival, and a sea of streaming banners and proud men greeted their king.</p>
  <p>"<em>Stannis is a chaste king</em>," she thought,"<em>but a king nonetheless, and a king must have glory</em>."</p>
  <p>The horses that bore them halted, for her king at the forefront of the procession stopped so that Winterfell's surrender would issue from its gates and greet him. The Gate opened, and a procession of men streamed outwards. A banner of a crown above two axes hung from the banner of the man accompanying the lead figure. Asha had first thought that the leader was a man, but a closer glance revealed to her that it was a lady. Other men followed in her wake, all of them on foot. She saw a fat lord struggle to hobble as he was supported by two servants, and a tall white-bearded giant who towered above his companions. More banners emerged from the gate to accompany the surrendering host. A merman carrying a trident, of the men who joined Stannis, their lord having still been in Bolton hands. She would be surprised if the lord was still alive, having survived the bastard's wroth that was sure to follow his betrayal. A giant in chains and a horse with a flaming mane also decorated the host.</p>
  <p>The lady leading the processions held in her hands a plate of sorts which held an object that she seemingly wished to present Stannis as a gift. Asha squinted, and saw that she knew the shape, having won so many of the same as trophies.</p>
  <p>"<em>The bastard's head</em>,"she wondered,"<em>or his father's?</em>"</p>
  <p>The stream of men who sallied from Winterfell's gates ceased as the lead figure approached Stannis. The entire surrendering host knelt, and Asha heard the lady declare, her voice so great that even Asha, far from the source of the voice, could hear.</p>
  <p>"Winterfell is yours."</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. MELISANDRE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She asked the Lord to show her king in the fires. The Lord gave her many visions. Visions of the future, hidden and veiled may they be. Only the truest of his followers could bathe in the heat of his guidance amidst the cold of ignorance. Only the most devout, the most honest to his designs in his endless struggle. The Lord is just, and sends every priest what they ask.</p><p>"<em>But it is men, ultimately </em> ,"Melisandre thought,"<em>to discern the Lord's will</em>." She had prayed to the fires since the night, and the Lord had again proved his divination. </p><p>He showed her the wicked devilry of the Enemy and his dark designs, bewitching the hearts of men with a host of false kings. A hundred false lords, who were aided by the beguiled that saw only the seductive fruit of dark gods and heathens, straying further and further away from the truth. </p><p>The fires divined a man shining in false light. He bore a lone shadow soaked in darkness, snow, and a curse so terrible that even she was repelled by its aura. Snows graced his brow and turned his hair white, though the same snow melted at his feet. He fell, knees almost gracing the ice, but pressed his sword at his feet. The ice broke, and the figures near him fell, but he stood again, raised by darkness.</p><p>The Lord showed her the dances of the Others and their brood of demons, their faces parched with roots and their many eyes red, feasting on the flesh of shadows, green and murky and reeking the fires of the devil's dead. </p><p>She saw a blue-eyed king rise from the womb of a beach of bones, the sand seeping blood and milk. His crown was bleeding corpses, and his armour frozen banners. The priestess could see their sigils. Lions, falcons, wolves, stags, suns, dragons, and roses, amongst many more, bitten by the frost of his presence. He raised his sword, a dim mockery of King Stannis's bright and holy Lightbringer, wrought in the blue and false light of the gods of darkness. A thousand songs boomed to his call, and she saw the corpses of a million rise and march. She saw castles and fields freeze in the shadow realm of ice and darkness.</p><p>The king turned to his queen, a blue-skinned woman who rose at his side, and he kissed her earnestly. Her skin was frost and her breath poison. She burned with an unearthly flame despite the cold, and the snow at her feet melted into streams and rivers which flowed outwards. Melisandre could see that her hand, laced with the king's, drooped silver blood that melted into the shape of wings in the snow. A pack of wolves howled in her mind, and red and black shadows danced until they blurred the flame, and it faded to its original sheen. </p><p>She had asked to see the king, yet it did not show her. </p><p>The Lord showed false kings aplenty. A red dragon burning, until its scales were ash. It was seated on a throne of gold and green fire, its crown silks, satins, and the bells of a fool. A young cub decked in a crown of antlers, led into an eager throng of ravenous hounds by its blind mother. A mass of weathered stone statues raising their blades to a grey-haired man whose crown was iron. </p><p>She saw them all, all save the Lord's champion. All save Azor Ahai. All save King Stannis.</p><p>"Lady Melisandre," she heard Queen Selyse demand," Have you seen in your fires the truth that befell my husband? Is the letter true, and his host is scattered and his grace dead, or was it a falsehood? Does his grace live? Did he emerge victorious from the south?"</p><p>Melisandre withdrew her gaze from the fires that burned in the hearth of the King's Tower. She turned to her steward, the boy Devan Seaworth. She knew he had gazed within the fires in curiosity. The boy had many grievances to state, ever since he knew of his father. She wondered if the Lord had extended his gift to the smuggler's son. It was only given rarely.</p><p>"What did you see?" she asked him, her voice melodious and sweet.</p><p>"My lady," he stammered in reply," I saw... knights."</p><p>"King Stannis's knights?" she dared to venture. Had the Lord shown the boy what he had denied her? Was the boy somehow more worthy of the Lord's favour than she, his devoted priestess, was? </p><p>The boy shook his head, his eyes flitting back to the fire. "<em>Strange</em>," Melisandre thought,"<em>He could never so easily break his gaze from me before</em>." She heard a discord of muttering break upon the assembly of men. She sensed shadows conversing, and the touch of the Great Other upon the men. Perhaps it was their impatience for her response. But she could no more give them an answer, for the Lord had denied her the flares of Stannis.</p><p>"<em>Perhaps his light burned too low in his labors</em>," she thought,"<em>and the fires of false kings burned bright but still cold. The humble warmth does not seek the greater fire, but the cold light of the Great Other and his servants seek it to stifle the eternal hearth</em>."</p><p>"I saw...," Devan replied," knights..., but they were as if stone, in a shadow-strewn room of darkness. It was as if the knights were pieces on a board. There were other pieces as well, men with crowns and women with crowns. Lords with goblets, lords with coin, and lords with seven-starred swords. Dragons, great beasts that protrude a grey mast from their heads, horses and castles, stewards and merchants, all arrayed on a board. They bore many banners, of all the kingdoms of the realm, the flaming stag of his grace as well. Two shadows loomed over the board, one slender and one fat. There was also a third shadow that loomed, but it was too short to play. The slender and the fat shadows took their turns moving the pieces on the board. The slender shadow reached for the banners bearing a golden flower, and when his hand came into the light I saw that it was golden too. The fat shadow waited, biding his time carefully, but he made his pieces as well, moving the kings and knights bearing both the red dragon banner and the black dragon banner. His hand was monstrous, and on each fat finger was the head of a child. The room suddenly darkened, and even greater shadows loomed above. Two shades, their crowns shining bronze and gold. Only their eyes were discernible. One of the men had only one eye, which burned red and was laced by cracks of lightning. The other had two, but they gleamed a striking and shimmering blue, vastly brighter than any normal blue eye ought to be. They appeared as if lanterns in the night, lonely and eerie, glowing as bright as the midnight stars against the darkness. The little shadows that played on the board fell into their shade. The vision then ended. That is all I saw. The Lord showed me nothing of King Stannis."</p><p>"<em>His vision is set in riddles</em>," Melisandre thought,”<em>that a mortal man cannot see clearly its truth. It might be that Lord Seaworth's son is blessed with the holy sight, despite his father's stubborn rejection of the true faith. At least the boy knows to heed the Lord. His devotion may earn the Lord's graces one day</em>."</p><p>She thought of another boy the Lord had graced,"<em>Daggers in the dark. I warned him, but he did not listen. Those that do not heed the Lord's warning pay a dear price</em>."</p><p>But that matter could wait, for the matter of the king was paramount at this time. She knew that all the eyes and hearts of Stannis's men were to follow her guidance, for her guidance was the light of the Lord.</p><p>She sighed,"<em>Should I lie?. Say that King Stannis is alive, and placate their hearts</em>." She did not know why the Lord had shown her what he had, though she knew that they would serve a purpose.</p><p>"<em>The blue-eyed king arises </em> ," she thought," <em> and the Others come. The false kings of the realm sit on their mummer's thrones, quarreling over petty squabbles, all the while ignorant of the true threat that lies north. The Wall will soon come under assault. The dance was their ritual, and their feasting of flesh their feast in the war's honour. The Wall will be too few to hold them. I  must unite as many as I can., as the Lord of Light bid me his messenger. We must look north, not south </em>."</p><p>While she lingered in her thoughts, a voice broke the still silence of the chamber. It was the fool that the Princess, no, Queen Shireen now, brought as her companion to join their assembly in the king's tower. He spoke by his half-crazed mind, spouting another incoherent dawdling.</p><p>"A mummer's priest. A mummer's feast. A mummer's light they see,"the fool sang, his bells ringing,"A dance there be, of demon and queen. A dance there be, of suitor and queen. By the shade that comes, brightly seethes. Hee Hee Hee."</p><p>Patchface's bells rung merrily as he danced, and she noted the irritated gazes of the lords and knights at the mad fool. The queen would not win the hearts of her subjects if she continued to converse with the madman as she did. Queen Shireen would need to be weaned from that companionship. </p><p>"<em>Is it a prophecy</em>,"she mused,"<em>on the reign of the queen? A mummer's priest, and a mummer's light they see</em>." The old Maester Cressen had called her a mummer's priest, and many in the realm believe the righteousness of King Stannis's light to be false.</p><p>"<em>Unbelievers and ignorants</em>,"she thought,"<em>fools and stubborn old men </em>." Her red choker burned with fire. That was all the light she needed to trust in the Lord. The rest of the fool's words remained a mystery. Perhaps there were no meaning at all, and they were the genuine rambles of a madman beyond any saving grace. </p><p>Queen Selyse signaled to her guards, and two of them seized the fool and removed him from the room.</p><p>Patchface raved as he was pulled, not caring that two guards had hold of his arms,"Lord of Crows. Lord of Lies. Lord of a sister's sigh. The fish, they come, from under the sea, to King of Light, to King of Night. By mist that comes, young wings rise. Aye Aye Aye."</p><p>The room was again silent after the fool was removed.</p><p>"<em>They all look to me </em> ,"she realized,"<em>I must make this leap </em>."</p><p>"The king is dead," she declared," I have not seen him in my fires, and I do not believe that the Lord will not show me his grace should he have lived. I cannot see into the heavens, and the Hall of Light. That is where they surely must dwell now, beyond my sight." </p><p>She strode to the Princess Shireen, her red dress brushing against the floor, the swish of its fabric the only voice within the assembly. She knelt before the princess still cradled in her mother's arms.</p><p>"Long live the queen," she declared in a booming voice that the Lord would have granted her in ceremonies of prayer,"May the light of the Lord bless your reign."</p><p>The room was silent to greet her proclamation, and it was asking much of their loyalty to serve a greyscale-ridden girl. It was the only path, however, and she trusted that those true and righteous would choose the right path. His grace Stannis was most like to have fallen.</p><p>"<em>There may have been another</em>,"she thought,"<em>if he had proved more faithful. My visions saw greatness in his future</em>." But Lord Snow was gone, gone as the wisps of the nightfire at the break of dawn. There was said to have been ancient priests that could revive the dead, but those arts have long been lost since the Red Priesthood began to decline a century before. A body was needed, as well, if the soul had not yet been lost, and not that of any mortal man. It needs to be of king's blood, for there is power in the blood of the men that became kings, elsewise the soul could not merge with the body. But Jon Snow's soul was already lost, his body burnt and his spirit released. Even the legends could not tell of red priests that revived a man without his corpse. </p><p> A large crackle sounded outside the tower. The Watch were burning their fallen Lord Commander, and the pyre was now lit. The crackles were soon lost to the whistling of the winter winds. </p><p>"<em>Much like Lord Snow</em>,"she thought,"<em>his fire could have burned brighter than any other, or lost to the shadow or winds of darkness like so many before. He chose, and his fire is lost to the darkness of eternity </em>."</p><p>She continued to kneel, her head bowed, and wondered if the lords would prove their loyalty and devotion to the queen, his grace's rightful heir.</p><p>A lord raised his voice. It was Axell Florent, the dowager queen's uncle,"The Lord has spoken, and the king is dead. Long live the queen."</p><p>He drew his sword singing from its sheath and knelt with a plop on the stone floor. The other men took their cue, and drew their blades, the room thundering as dozens of knights knelt on the stone floor, swear their fealty to the Lord's chosen queen.</p><p>"Long live the queen," they boomed," Long live the queen."</p><p>Melisandre gazed upwards at the queen and her mother. The torches flickered and the winds blew. The light of the fires illuminated the greyscale in the queen's face.</p><p>"<em>She would not be loved </em> ," she thought," <em> perhaps never, even if she could grow in beauty. But she is the queen the Lord has deemed me to follow, for she is the child of Azor Ahai </em>."</p><p>Lady Selyse kissed her daughter on the cheek that was not plagued and whispered something in her ear. The queen, dumbfounded, rose from her mother's embrace. </p><p>Melisandre suddenly felt a flicker of cold touch her neck. She flinched, and memories from another life washed up within her. Memories of times long past, when she was still the uncouth highborn maiden, unknowing of the grace and light of the Lord as she ungratefully bathed in what he offered. Memories of the times of mortal pleasure before that night, when blood turned the pale red stones a darker shade, and steel stung on flesh. Before she found the people the Lyseni fearfully called the Red Men, their hands stained with blood and flame. How cold she had felt then, devoid of the fire of the Lord, alone and old, in a thin silken dress on the steps of the temple. </p><p>But those days were centuries past, and she stood now the Lord's humble servant, his fires warming her at every moment. Seeing the girl before her, clad in almost the same dress to what she had worn so long ago, a princess, awakened the cold of that tale. </p><p>"<em>It would not do to dwell on times past </em> ,"she chided," <em> The Lord deals in fires, in this day and future days. The past serves the cold of the god of darkness, the bitterness and remembrance of the old of their youthful strength, only a maker of the darkness of men. King Stannis might well be dead, and Lord Snow is as well. It is not a girl that stands before me, nor the princess that loved a fool, but a queen </em>." </p><p>There was no man that could smith a crown at the Wall, so Queen Selyse took off hers. She gave it to Melisandre, and the priestess stood.</p><p>"May your grace kneel?" she asked. The cold that had briefly washed over her faded as her choker glowed red with the god's grace.</p><p>"<em>May the Lord bless her reign </em> ,"she prayed,"<em>and that her fire burns strong </em>."</p><p>The queen, her eyes fearful, fell to her knees, not caring that her dress was ruined from the dust of the floor. Queen Selyse scowled in disgust, but no other man made to object.</p><p>She raised the crown over the young queen's brown-haired head.</p><p>"Do you solemnly swear, by the Light of the Lord," she declared, her voice enhanced by the Lord's grace," rule with a just and fair heart? Will you abide by the righteousness of the Lord of Light, and show true piety in his service? Will you show kindness to your people, blessing the needy with alms and the weak with strength?"</p><p>The queen responded, though her voice was weak and whimpering,"I will."</p><p>Melisandre continued,"Will you protect your people with the swords and fires that you will command? Will you judge criminals with an even hand and condemn the guilty for their crimes? Will you be the Shield that guards the realm from treason and invasion." </p><p>"I will," was the response. The queen's voice had hardened somewhat, and her body had stopped its shaking fits.</p><p>"<em>Perhaps she has found her courage </em> ," she thought,"<em>and her fire to shield her from treason. Even the men here, by the blessed fire of the Lord, are certainly plotting in the shadows </em>."</p><p>"Will you do your duty to the realm as its queen?"she demanded,"Will you do your duty to your people? Will you do your duty to the Lord of Light? Will you swear your utmost to lead the realm from the hands of traitors and usurpers into peace and prosperity?"</p><p>The queen's eyes rose to meet hers, their brown pupils small yet brave. The light illuminated her greyscale, which sunk grotesquely into her otherwise hale skin. "I will," was her stiff response. </p><p>Melisandre nodded, and laid the crown on her brow," Then by the Light of the Lord, you are hereby crowned Shireen of the House Baratheon, Ruling Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Queen of Westeros, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Let all true men declare their loyalty. Bright shall your fire burn, for the night is dark and full of terrors. Long may she reign."</p><p>The queen stood, and Melisandre dropped to her knees again. She heard the men in the room echo her chant,"Long may she reign. Long may she reign."</p><p>The queen, still a girl and having braved little of the court of her father due to her greyscale, was shocked by their devotion, and she looked desperately to her mother.</p><p>But the red priestess heard amongst the men their almost silent mutters," Queen in the North. A queen of wastelands."</p><p>"<em>It would not do </em> ," Melisandre thought," <em> for the new queen to beg her mother's approval like a cub not yet off teats </em>." </p><p>When the chant died, Queen Selyse rose,"As my daughter is not yet grown, I shall serve as her Regent. Lady Melisandre has not seen my husband his grace in the fires, and it may yet be that he still lives. If he is to return, the crown shall be surrendered to the king. Until such that his fall may be confirmed, my daughter is your queen, and I her regent to rule and counsel her reign."</p><p>"Arise, my lords," she commanded, and they rose.</p><p>"Ser Axell," she called, and the old lord heeded her call and came forward,"You shall serve as the Hand of the Queen, as Lord Davos has unfortunately fallen and his grace had not named a successor." The man nodded and fell back, though Melisandre could see a smile upon his face.</p><p>Another man came forward. She saw that it was Ser Benethon Scales. He knelt before the regent and the queen.</p><p>"Your grace," he started. The Lady Selyse nodded, and he continued,"Now that Princess Shireen is queen, she should have a retinue and a guard befitting that status. A queen's safety, after all, is paramount. I thus volunteer my swords to serve as the queen's guards. They are trained at my own hand, and are loyal to the last. None shall ever desert or abandon his duty in guarding the queen's safety. I hope that your grace considers this proposal with all seriousness."</p><p>Lady Selyse nodded, smiling," Very well, Ser Benethon. You shall serve as the Captain of the Queen's Guard. You are a man that I would trust to be suited to this duty, as you have always been known as a loyal man of my household. If your men are trained by your hand, I do not doubt their loyalty. Please rise." She offered Ser Benethon her hand. The knight kissed it, rose, and returned to his former place.</p><p>"My lords," the Lady Regent declared," We must decide on our future course, and the protection of my daughter's crown. The Watch has murdered their Lord Commander, and Ser Patrek is dead. I believe all of you have heard of the contents of the letter. King Stannis is dead if it is true, and the Bastard demands the head of my daughter, your rightful queen. Lord Snow meant to defy the letter and march a host south to strike at the bastard, avenging my husband and reclaiming Winterfell, but he was murdered in cold blood. I would say that the mutineers mean to abide by the letter, and give my daughter to the traitors' dogs that are the flayed men. You say that all of you are queen's men, and you have sworn your swords in my daughter's service in the sight of both the Lord of Light and the assembly. So serve the queen, and protect her. Storm Castle Black and arrest the lead mutineers, Marsh and Yarwyck, and make certain that her grace's safety is ensured.</p><p>"The Night's Watch takes no part," a voice called.</p><p>"They've taken a part," another answered," the side of the Lord of Winterfell. The side of the Boltons of the Dreadfort. It will be lawful and just in the eyes of the Lord to strike."</p><p>"What of the wildlings?"</p><p>"They were Lord Snow's men. They have only stayed their hand because Marsh holds their hostages captive. They will not take a side." </p><p>The room collapsed into shouts and men arguing, one voice more fiercer than the other.</p><p><em>"They would never dare to do so when Stannis was</em> <em>king</em>," she thought. The new queen stared wide-eyed at her subjects, and curled in her mother's arms in fear.</p><p>Queen Selyse gave her a sharp glance,"Lady Melisandre. You must do something about this, elsewise we can plan nothing." She nodded, knowing the shouts of the fools would reach no end. She saw Devan's hand curl upon his hilt, as if anticipating a brawl. Melisandre prayed to the Lord to lace her voice with command and courage.</p><p>"Silence," she boomed with the Lord's voice," Lord Snow is dead. King Stannis is dead. Quarreling will not serve you any further. May the Lord's Light fall upon her grace to illuminate her path. I have not seen his grace in my fires, but I have seen much else. The Great Other rises, and his army of death marches to war. A blue-eyed king who cast no shadow but horror and cold. Have you forgotten the quest that the Lord foretold through I of our destiny north in these barren lands of war and hardship? I would not have asked you to abandon your southern struggles if there were not a greater battle that may hold the realm in balance. King Stannis was the Prince that was Promised, the man that legend foretold would strike against the Others and deliver us from doom. There are men to our south, but death to our north. Lord Snow passed the path of shadow when he chose to break his oath. The Watch is the realm's shield, and we cannot break it. Victory can only be achieved if all men unite against the gods of darkness. Remember your oath, and remember your loyalty, to be the shield against the endless night. Do not worry of treason. The light of the Lord shall guide her grace in the coming darkness." </p><p>Her voice had scarcely fallen when a protest rose. She could hear mutters amongst the men doubting her voice, but she knew that her tone must not give way. The distant memory of the scribble of the septon's pen still rankled in her mind, while the winds blew, singing in the crevices of the swords. It was most certainly true that those of lesser faith were plotting treason against the rightful queen.</p><p>It was Ser Hubert Grandison that spoke. He was a man that gave himself to the Lord, but she knew that he remained foolishly doubtful of its truth. </p><p>"And how may the Light of the Lord guide her grace through Bolton's storm when the Lord of Winterfell strikes against Castle Black with a thousand swords. The Watch is not shielded from the south, and we have little men. We also have traitors within our walls in the guise of black cloaks."</p><p>"You lack faith, good Ser," Melisandre responded, her voice as silken as Myrish honey," If the foes of Queen Shireen are to ride north, the Lord shall drown his host in the storms of righteous fury. If the hearts of the black brothers prove treacherous, the Lord shall cast light to show the shadows in their hearts, and smite them with his heavenly fire." She had no doubt that the Lord would show her a way. If King Stannis were dead, his blood lives in Queen Shireen. The blood and future of the Prince that was Promised is blessed by the Light of the Lord. When King Stannis faced his treasonous brother, the Lord cast down his might and smote the usurper when he had the greater host. Melisandre was certain that the Lord will show the same grace to aid the queen.</p><p>Another voice shouted, its tone dry, dusty, and reeking of filth,"My Lords, I say that we abide by the Lord of Winterfell's terms. We have no swords to defy him, and a child cannot lead us to victory. Good men of the south. We trusted our faith in Renly, in Stannis, but they proved to be usurpers and were cast down. This red god is unrighteous, and we have cursed ourselves by turning on the Seven. I say that we give the false queen and princess to Bolton and bind ourselves back to the crown. We may return south, to the warm embrace of our lands, our hearths, and our wives. I beseech you to abandon this folly, and leave the North the northmen's duty. This has not been our battle, and we never saw what death the witch speaks of. King Stannis was a fool, and a false king, and following him has doomed us as well. We will not need to suffer his folly anymore, if only we trust in the terms and good will of the Lord of the North."</p><p>"<em>This is treason </em> ," Melisandre thought," <em> and blasphemy as well. The Lord of Darkness would welcome the man in his ranks, he who would betray the Lord of Light's chosen </em>." Those that were of loyal and pure heart drew their blades and converged on the knight who spoke. He was a lord, she could now see, of a minor banner house of the Velaryons of Driftmark. His liege was a descendant of the great Valyrians of old, who proved true to the Lord. Yet his vassal dares to doubt the word of the Lord's priestess, sacrilege at the highest order, of which there could only be one path to cleanse the soul of impurity. If his soul were not to languish in the endless dungeons of the Hall of Night, his sins must burn away.</p><p>"Seize him," she commanded," and prepare a pyre. take him to the ice cells for now, until the time such as the Lord will pronounce his judgement. The fires, by the Lord's grace, will clean his soul, and even unbelievers such as him may achieve salvation and bathe in the pleasures of the Hall of Light." The man shouted curses at her, calling her a red whore, the witch who enchanted the hearts of men. Words borne of shadows and darkness within the soul, to make filthy the pure and untarnished flame of the Lord's servants.</p><p>Unease gripped the hall as another man was dragged from the room.</p><p>"<em>They should not be fearful, but grateful </em> ," she thought," <em> for an enemy of the Lord has been found dark of heart and mind, and cleansed this tower of the Great Other's hand </em> . <em> Though they may be uneasy, for that man is not the only heart that would prove untrue. The Lord has not granted me the power to see the hearts of men, and many of their minds lay cloaked in shadow. I cannot judge whether the hearts of all the men here are true to the Lord's light </em>."</p><p>She looked to the young queen. Queen Shireen was clinging to her mother's skirt at the sounds of the singing of the swords. Queen Selyse lifted the hand that was comforting her daughter and raised her head.</p><p>"My lords,"she said,"Lady Melisandre is correct. We cannot risk open war and rebellion, especially since the loyalty of the men in our own ranks are doubtful." </p><p>"My lady,"she turned to Melisandre,"Has the Lord granted you knowledge of a future course that my daughter must take?"</p><p>Melisandre spoke:"The Lord has granted his wisdom to all his believers. He grants to me the visions of the future. He has shown me the Others amassing beyond the Wall, and they will soon come. We are to be the Lord's arm, and the realm's shield. Our might will run strong, as we defend the cause of the righteous."</p><p>A voice rang out unexpectedly from the queen herself.</p><p>"My lords,"she squeaked, her voice weak,"Have any of you wisdom as to our future course? For all I know, my father is dead, and the foes that my mother speaks of are riding to kill me as well. What should we do?"</p><p>One of the lords rose to kneel before Queen Shireen. It was Ser Benethon Scales again, the newly appointed Captain of the Queen's guards, and his bulky body cast a shadow that blinded the glow of the torches. She saw a shadow within him as well, but she could not yet judge its source. She saw shadows in all men. Some by fear, some by treachery, and some by lust, but this man's shadow was none of them. Melisandre realized what it was. Lord Snow held the same darkness within his soul. </p><p>"<em>The shadow of duty </em>," she thought.</p><p>"Your Grace," he stated in a gravelly tone. He turned to her,"my lady." He turned again to Queen Selyse," Your Grace."</p><p>Ser Benethon then turned again to face the queen," It is my honour that you have granted me the privilege of serving as your Captain of Guards. It is therefore of utmost concern that your safety is secured. To be frank, I cannot promise that you will be safe while we dwell in Castle Black. It, as my mind has compelled me to speak the truth, a foolish notion to come here from the safety of Eastwatch. I beg your grace's pardon if my words have offended, and that I feared to speak my mind until now. But now that I am responsible for your grace's safety, I must suggest a course. This castle has proved perilous, as the events of last night have proved. I do not trust that the black cloaks would keep to your grace's interests. Though I trust Lady Melisandre's word that the foe would not dare or be capable of striking against your grace, it would be foolish to risk it at any rate. I propose that we leave the might of our retinue here at Castle Black to secure the Watch's loyalty, while my company of guards will escort your grace and your mother the Lady Regent to Eastwatch. Your safety is paramount in the continuation of King Stannis's cause. Eastwatch is safer, as our fleet can escort your grace's escape if danger arises and the foe crosses the Lord's storm. I dare not risk a larger escort for fear of detection, and my guards are willing to lay down their lives to shield your escape should any danger arise."</p><p>"Are you saying that her grace should flee in the manner of the Dornishmen, and declare to the world that our queen is a spineless coward?" A protest broke out amongst the lords.</p><p>"I speak only the truth," Ser Benethon shouted amidst the din greeting his proposal," Castle Black is no place for a queen."</p><p>"Silence," another voice called, this one loud but shrill," The Hand of the Queen demands order." Lord Axell Florent stood, and strode to kneel beside Ser Benethon. "Your grace," he proclaimed," The words of the Captain of Guards have merit. Castle Black has proved a dangerous place for a young queen to dwell. I would be glad, as my duty as Hand, to serve in your stead and take command of the castle while your grace rests safely in Eastwatch. I shall take command in Lord Snow's stead and put the castle to rights, organizing both the Watch and wildling savages. I shall raise another host loyal to your grace, and when it is raised we may invite your grace to lead our march, when we will take Winterfell and begin your campaign for the Seven Kingdoms, fulfilling his grace King Stannis's wishes. I cannot promise that order will be bloodless, and I plead that your grace remain as far from the castle until such time when we may receive a queen again."</p><p>Hearing her uncle's words, Queen Selyse nodded. She looked to Melisandre, as if to ask for her approval. Melisandre nodded, as she knew that the little queen had little safety here. A man's shield must protect Azor Ahai's heir as much as divine grace will. Queen Selyse saw her, and whispered again in her daughter's ear. Queen Shireen stood, and made to speak.</p><p>"Then I accept your proposal, my good lords. Do you have in your mind a time in which we could depart?"</p><p>"In two days, your grace," Ser Benethon responded," I trust that my men would make the necessary preparations in time. I trust that your grace's will as well."</p><p>The queen nodded, and opened her mouth to voice assent. Before the words ran off her tongue, Melisandre unconsciously felt as if the room collapsed suddenly into cold. The flames of the torches withered, and she could no longer hear the crackle of Lord Snow's pyre.</p><p>A horn sounded.</p><p>"<em>The horn of the Watch </em> ," she thought," <em> the Others have come </em>." She braced herself for a second blast, but none came. The attention of the assembly had been seized, fearing the worst, but the men seemed to visibly relax when no second call followed the initial blast. </p><p>"Rangers," she heard many of the men mutter.</p><p>"Your grace," Ser Axell proposed,"Shall you grace their return with your presence?" His eyes were on the queen, but his voice clearly carried to her mother. Queen Selyse nodded, and Ser Axell made to prepare, shouting orders to the men to arrange the retinue of their sally.</p><p>Melisandre touched her choker, and it burned red and warm. The Lord would warm her even while the winds of the bitter north blew. She was curious of the rangers' return. Had they seen the dead in the North, or an Other itself, for she felt that the Others marched ever closer to the Wall. Perhaps not, elsewise they would not return from death's grasp. The Lord had sent her more and more of the Others in her visions in the fire of late, and she took it as a dire warning that the foes were approaching. </p><p>"<em>How have they returned </em> ," she thought," <em> when the Haunted Forest keeps true to its name </em>."</p><p> </p><p>Queen Shireen's retinue filed from the tower, exposing themselves to the cold. The other knights huddled their cloaks to their chest, but Melisandre needed not, for she had given herself to the flames of the Lord long ago, and fire was her companion that dispelled the cold of darkness.</p><p>"<em>If they were of truer faith </em> ,"Melisandre thought,"<em>They need not fear the cold as they do now </em>."</p><p>Ser Axell barked orders, arranging for an escort upon their retinue. Ser Benethon Scales and his picked men stood with their hands on their hilt by the queen's side. The queen's men strode to a balcony overlooking the courtyard, and saw the black brothers in the aftermath of their Lord Commander's funeral. Several black brothers greeted their arrival.</p><p>After a time, two riders approached from a path that led from the Wall's gate. She recognized the stern face of Ser Alliser Thorne, and another black brother that she did not know the name. He was bent over, clutching a wound in his thigh.</p><p>"Ser Alliser. Dywen," the Acting Lord Commander Bowen Marsh called, a trail of Watchmen following in his wake as the former Lord Steward made to greet the returning rangers.</p><p>"Lord Marsh," Ser Alliser declared," Where is Lord Snow? We have urgent tidings to report to his lordship." The black brothers looked at one another.</p><p>Bowen Marsh made to respond," Lord Snow is dead. That fire you see burning is his pyre. I am Acting Lord Commander of Castle Black. What tidings you have to report shall come to me?"</p><p>Ser Alliser's mouth drooped into a frown, and pursed his lips,"How did the boy die? Did the fool fall off the Wall? Did he get a knife in his throat while fucking a wildling whore?"</p><p>"He deserted the Watch. We executed him as the oath required."</p><p>The ranger did not ask any more, and sniggered,"Hmph. I always knew that traitors' blood will show itself. Like father, like son."</p><p>Bowen Marsh appeared unsettled," Let us not speak of him. What tidings have you gained beyond the Wall?"</p><p>Ser Alliser dismounted his horse," Dywen was shot by wildlings in the thigh when the Weeper's scouts detected our party. We removed the arrow, but a night has passed, and he is in need of aid urgently."</p><p>Bowen Marsh gestured to his stewards, and two of them helped the other ranger dismount. They acted as the injured rangers' crutch as they led him to the infirmary.</p><p>The former Lord Steward broke the silence after they departed,"This is no place to discuss your tidings. We can speak of length of your findings by the hearth of the Lord Commander's Tower."</p><p>Ser Alliser shook his head,"This cannot wait. Th tidings that I come to report are too queer."</p><p>"Very well,"the steward said," What did you find beyond the Wall?"</p><p>"We were three when we departed. I myself, Dywen, and the White Flint, whom old Lord Rivers recommended to join my ranging. We journeyed for days in the Haunted Forest, and we expected not to return, as I knew that Lord Snow meant to use this ranging as an excuse to exact revenge. It was our misfortune that we chanced upon the host of the Weeper. They were closer than ever before, and we fear that they may strike soon at Castle Black. Some of their scouts found us, and our horses barely outpaced theirs. Dywen had suffered an injury, so we thought to return."</p><p>"Is this the urgent tidings that you bring?"Bowen Marsh stated,"If the Weeper means to attack Castle Black, then it is dire indeed. Come to the Lord Commander's Tower. We must join with King Stannis's men and prepare for battle."</p><p>"No,"Ser Alliser said," that was not the queerest. It was last night, when the Haunted Forest proved its name, and we were set upon by dead men, all with shining blue eyes. The White Flint had our flame, and slew one or two. Almost no one could see, though, in the snow and madness. He was soon overwhelmed, and Dywen and I thought we were doomed. He could not fight, and I could not defend two with one sword. Suddenly, as if by some divine stroke, the dead became true corpses again, and fell into the snow. We were dumbfounded, but we were grateful, for that is how we were able to return. I had meant to tell Lord Snow about this strange happening, but since he has died a traitor's death, I will report to you instead. I trust that you will make a better Lord than the bastard."</p><p>"The dead... died again,"Bowen Marsh voiced in disbelief," They fell on their own?" </p><p>Ser Alliser nodded.</p><p>"<em>Is it the Wall's magic </em> ," Melisandre thought," <em> that stopped them from marching close. The spells cast by the First Men of Westeros were potent and strong, and they raised the Wall for one purpose. Or is it the might of the Lord of Light, that smote down the dead and the servants of the Great Other to shield the realm from his great foe. Whatever the cause, it will not last, and the dead will inevitably break the spells. The Lord has shown me that future, and the Wall will fall. They will bring with them ice and snow, and envelop Westeros in an everlasting night of winter </em>."</p><p>"<em>Azor Ahai must come </em> ,"she thought," <em> The Prince that was Promised must rise to lead the living, elsewise the dead would conquer all. I thought it was King Stannis, but he fell, and a princess is not a prince. Queen Shireen is also too young</em>."</p><p>Her eyes suddenly caught a white blur on the opposing battlements. It blended with the snow, so a mortal eye could not see it, but the Lord enhanced her sight, and made clear the fur of the wolf.</p><p>"<em>But Lord Snow is dead </em> ,"she thought. Melisandre recanted the prophecy,"<em>Born again from salt and smoke, to the light of a bleeding star. King of the ashes. King of the Light. The Prophesied Hero that would lead the realm against darkness. Lord Snow was a warg. Could his soul be with his wolf? His body may be burnt, but his soul is untarnished. He may be born again, to claim his duty </em>."</p><p>"Where are the wildlings?"Ser Alliser asked, as her attention was directed again below. </p><p>"I see King Stannis's men,"he said,"but not the wildlings that Lord Snow had so kindly invited into our castle."</p><p>"They left this morning, before you returned,"Othell Yarwyck responded,"They were Lord Snow's men, and keeping them would be a danger. They sought to rescue their kin at Hardhome."</p><p>"<em>They will all die </em> ,"Melisandre thought,"<em>I warned Lord Snow that the path is doomed to fail. When I sought the fires to ask of Lord Snow's ships, the Lord showed me only a dark king rising over a mound of corpses. His fingers were daggers, and stained with blood</em>."</p><p>Some of the men were muttering,"The wildlings are gone."</p><p>She even heard Devan mouth,"They're gone."</p><p>She saw Ser Axell and Ser Benethon share a knowing glance, and they both dipped their heads.</p><p>The black cloaks below continued to speak of their exploits, but she was disinterested. </p><p>"<em>I need to see about Devan's sight </em> ,"she thought,"<em>It is strange that the Lord chose him </em>."</p><p>"Devan," she said," accompany me." The boy nodded, and she saw Ser Axell give them a glance and a nod. After taking the leave of her grace, her two guards and the boy following in her wake. They came soon to her tower's chamber, and she strode to the balcony overlooking the courtyard below, where small figures were still standing in the snow.</p><p>"<em> Is this what the Lord sees </em> ," she wondered," <em> when he looks upon us humble servants. No. I should not pretend to look with the Lord's eyes. It is blasphemy, seeking to see what the Lord sees, and will deny me the Hall of Light </em>."</p><p>She turned, her copper hair flying in the snow," Devan, come here."</p><p>The smuggler's son wore a fur-lined helm and a similarly coated cloak of fur. His gloved hand was set upon his hilt, and his youthful eyes were hardset. He strode to Melisandre's side, heeding her command.</p><p>"I am at your service, my lady,"he spoke softly, his voice quavering from the cold.</p><p>"Do you feel the cold, my young lord,"she spoke sweetly,"That is the spell of the Great Other. Snow is his army, and winter is his kingdom. The Lord's realm is fire, and he fights eternally against his evil foe. I have given myself to the flame, and I feel no cold, as the Lord's fire warms me."</p><p>The boy's eyes, however, were set upon the courtyard below, his soul seemingly undeterred by her words.</p><p>The snows fell in flurries, and she soon found her copper hair matted with snow. Devan took off his glove and gripped the railing, as if relishing in the coolness.</p><p>"<em>He has changed </em> ," Melisandre thought,"<em>No longer the meek and callow boy from before. Is it last night's fight, when he first blooded his blade? The Lord chose to grant him sight. Perhaps the Lord chose to enlighten his darkness, as he did with that woman so long ago </em>." </p><p>"The Lord has granted you sight,"she said,"That is no common gift. He only grants it to his most devout. You are to play a part in his designs, in his fight against evil."</p><p>Devan lifted his gaze from the clustered figures below and looked to Melisandre. He released his hold on the icy railing and slipped on his glove.</p><p>"I have been thinking," he started," of the Lord and his will. How it might be done, and how it might be served. When I looked into the flame this morning, I saw only shadows. Shadows cast by knights. Shadows cast by kings. Shadows cast by other shadows. Do you know what I asked the Lord to show me? I asked him to show my mother, and my brothers in our holdfast in the Stormlands, andhow they may fare. My father had left them when he had taken his other sons to war. And now my father is dead. Dale is dead. Allard is dead. Maric and Matthos as well. All of them, dead. My mother and my two brothers are all that I have left, and I have abandoned them to shadows. My caring mother, who had reared me. I still remember the times in which she would tell me bedtime tales by the hearth of my chamber. The stories of the Storm's Song, when a thousand Stormlander galleys landed on the shores of Northern Dorne. They landed in the midst of a great storm, but they endured to shield their lands from the Dornish pirate lords. She would tell me the tale of the great outlaw Ser Owen of the Rainwood, a noble knight forced into banditry by the lawlessness of his liege lord. He would raid from the greedy rich and give to the needy poor. I barely remember little Stannis, and only know Steffon from my father's letters with my mother, as I had been taken by my father to foster at Dragonstone as soon as I reached my sixth nameday."</p><p>He sighed,"I asked myself why I came north. I came to serve the will of the Lord. I came so that I may fight and do my duty, and feast with my fallen brothers in the Hall of Light. I was naïve, a young boy, not even learned to be a knight, and knew little of lordship. I realized that I was my father's heir, when my four elder brother's fell. Now that my father has passed on as well, I am Lord Seaworth now. I am the head of the family, to shoulder the burden and duty that the position calls for. I never realized that before. When I came north, I thought to win glory by the king's side, and serve my duty to the Lord. But if I served the Lord's will, would I have abandoned my kin to the monsters of the south? What good is a thousand victories to the blood of my kin. I have given all to the Lord, and received only shadows in return. Is this his will, and what do I seek to fight for at the Wall? But is it the Lord that is wrong? I asked myself that question. No, it is not, for he is the greatest, but why by his guidance does his followers fall into shadow?"</p><p>She saw doubt in the boy's heart, and made to harden it," The brightest flames cast the darkest of shadows. The greater the duty, the greater the trial. It is not untrue that the greatest heroes were also the most tragic. If you are to be the Lord's champion, you have to trust in his will. The shadows of his visions are your trial. You are blessed with holy sight, a gift so few men are given to possess. You are foretold to do great deeds. A shadow is a reflection of the past, and a hero must forward beyond the shadows of memory thrust upon him by the gods of darkness, to journey into the holy fires that will make bright and glorious his future." </p><p>Devan laid his gloved hand upon his hilt once again, and moved his gaze to the men blow,"You say that I am blessed with the Lord's sight, and have the future of a hero. I believed it once, as I was a young fool that thought to win glory by the Lord's fire. Yet the only future that the Lord has shown me is darkness, laced with my ill-begotten sight." </p><p>She did not know how the boy had turned his mind so quickly, and she made to correct his course,"Those are dangerous words to utter in the presence of the Lord. You are young, and the Lord is merciful and will forgive your brashness. He gives no ill gifts to his devout worshipers. Only the dark-hearted have cause to fear his wrath. Do you not see the Light of the Lord that shines upon us even now in this snow, the light that blessed our fathers as they toiled the soil and grew our kingdoms. That is the Lord's light, and we have life because of his kindness. The sun is his hand, and the light his generous gift."</p><p>He laughed joylessly," Forgive me, my lady. I am a smuggler's son, and a criminal has no trust in anything but gold and swords, lacking in faith."</p><p>Devan turned to her again,"Then if the storm you speak of shall blind the sun's light hindering our foes' passage, is it the blessing of the Lord of Light or the Lord of Darkness?"</p><p>The boy was proving unfaithful, and her smile faded,"You speak as your father once did, lacking in trust of the Lord, and that was your father's greatest bane. The Lord of Darkness has no friends of man, and helps only to destroy. The light is the Lord of Light's gift. He can give or withdraw it at his will. When he brings the storm, he withdraws his light. The sky, in the end, would rather serve the righteous than the evil of the Great Other."</p><p>Devan did not give a response, and Melisandre saw a shadow grow in him. He eventually spoke,"May I take my leave?"</p><p>"Yes, you may,"she said, and the boy departed the balcony.</p><p>She gazed alone at the courtyard below, and heard the bells again. It struck as sudden as the cold, a great evil looming upon the courtyard. Before her sense could tell what it is, a horn sounded below. This was not the horn of the Night's Watch, but the horn of Stannis's men. She saw Ser Axell, Ser Benethon, and all of Queen Shireen's new guards draw their swords in unison. They turned upon all the other knights below and swiftly ran them through. Almost none were able to draw their swords before their blood stained the snow.</p><p>"<em>Why would they do this </em> ," she thought,"<em>committing this treason. Treason against the queen. Treason against the Lord. They will freeze eternally in the Halls of Darkness</em><em>. They will doom Westeros with their strife at this hour when the dead come</em>." She heard the bells ring louder, and the sound of steel stinging on flesh once again, to the cheers of a hundred men. She saw not the courtyard of Castle Black, but the coarse stones of a keep she had forgotten, looking on from the same tower. A dead man fell, and stained the stones. She saw dead men fall now, their slayers looking to her with the same eyes. The dowager queen huddled the young queen to her chest, and soon dozens of blades were trained on them. Ser Alliser made to draw his blade, but Bowen Marsh stayed him with his hand. All the other black brothers watched the treason unfold, their hands on their hilt but unwilling to intervene. </p><p>Melisandre heard a blade sing to her left.</p><p>"<em>Not Devan </em>," she thought as she turned to find the boy's blade buried in the throat of one of her guards. The other guard made to charge at him, but the boy nimbly sidestepped him, and used his momentum to catapult him from the balcony. He fell upon the ice below, the blood of his broken body black against the frozen ice.</p><p>She made to move, to escape, but found that Devan had trained his blade upon her throat.</p><p>"I'm sorry," he spoke, blood staining his white squire's doublet and his furs. He looked the mask of a blooded soldier, not a boy," A smuggler's son trusts in gold and swords, not gods. I trust not that the shield your god lends the little queen can save her from the blades of her foes. I am Lord Seaworth now, and I must lord my lands, not fall in the abysmal north by the folly of a fool of a priestess."</p><p>Anger and righteous fury arose," You would betray the Lord. You would betray your oath to your king."</p><p>"I betray no one," he responded harshly," The king is dead, and it was King Stannis that I followed. We will bind ourselves back to the crown, and return south to our homes."</p><p>"You would trust the word of the usurper's hounds?"</p><p>"I would trust them more than our number of swords." </p><p>Her will broke, and the ruby along her throat faded for an instant, revealing her to the cold.</p><p>"<em>No</em>," she thought,"<em>The Lord has no weak servants. He blesses those that trust in him with strength </em>." Ignoring the touch of cold steel, her ruby burned warm, and the snows lost again their cold kiss. She heard again the great roar of the beast that greeted its master's victory. But now her eyes did not linger on the courtyard below, where the traitors dragged the queen and her mother at swordpoint to wherever their masters demand. </p><p>Her gaze was drawn to another battlement, where she saw what she desired to see.</p><p>The white wolf opened his fangs in a snarl, and glared at her with grey eyes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. QUENTYN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"What's your name?" he asked gently in guttural Valyrian. He silently cursed himself, as his tongue emerged as hideous as a rattlesnake's, and would most certainly not endear him to the child standing before him. His brother had grasped it quickly, but he had only the basest sense of what Maester Alric taught in their lessons. </p><p>He thought of his old maester, another that he had lost. He had been as close to him as his father had been, perhaps even closer, for his father had his lordly duties whilst her servant taught his son. Kedry was fine, but he was oft skittish and hard-headed, as are all young men of that order. He preferred the old man of his youth, who he remembered guiding he and his brother through their studies as his own children, patient and wise. However, he would not have suited their long journey now, especially that debacle on the <em>Meadowlark</em>. He would have had to stay with his brother's company with Ser Gerris and Arch, though he doubted how an old scholar would fare in the Windblown. Most certainly not as well as the Tattered Prince.</p><p>His lessons had been gold, perhaps worth a kingdom more now that he languished in foreign lands. He himself had only picked the tongue up as a hobby to entertain his curiosity, as the history of the dragonlords fascinated him. The heir of the castle never gave it the attention it should have demanded.</p><p>It seemed to matter greatly, for he had needed to master the tongue quickly in his travels. The men here spoke varying dialects of bastard Valyrian, but they still held enough similarities for his mind to grasp their meaning. The journeys between Meereen and the slaver camps was not the simplest task. Their mission had demanded it, however, for they judged that the queen would never agree to terms bearing no weight but a few pounds of steel and a letter from half a world away. His brother had not been fit to do so, so he needed to act in his name and person. The sun must shine the brightest to please the dragon, but its rays must also bear heat, and heat that is given upon her scales by the winds of the world. They could not win her dragons in the common sense, but they could in other ways, and the dragon queen must return to Westeros.</p><p>Ser Gerris was fluent in the Valyrian tongue, and he accompanied Quentyn many times in his mission as emissary. Even so, oftentimes the proud masters would demand to answer the master rather than the hound.</p><p>"<em>It was no different</em>," Quentyn thought,"<em>from speaking to the lords of Dorne. Lord Wyl was prideful, but easily appeased with praise. Lady Dayne was vicious and barbed, but one could avoid the worst by not speaking of her brothers. And also her betrothed and nephew now as well, if I presume correctly. Lady Toland was jolly and amorous, but her happy smiles held hidden traps. My own father was cold and distant, his face never having borne a smile except the few times that I or the late prince proved our worth. Prince Doran himself was careful in his dealings with this bannerman, and even I do not know all his designs. I only do as I was bid. Those midnight eyes held a vast plain of stars that twinkle in everyone's eyes, knowing their light but not their secret</em>."</p><p>The hearts of the masters were swayed more easily, as he knew their collective intent. King Hizdahr and the masters of Meereen wished for her grace to depart the city with her dragons. They wished to preserve Meereen, however, and preserve its wealth and prestige from another sack. The dragon queen had ruined their city, but they still wished to make it as one of the beacons of light in Slaver's Bay. They could not allow another sack, even by another master. The masters of New Ghis wished to salvage compensation that was due from the queen's war, but did not wish to allow the Yunkish to hold the chief spoils from their siege, which were most certainly due to the siege's leader should Meereen fall. The Windblown, as their name foretold, were truthfully tattered banners, and danced to the winds of gold and victory. He did not know what the Tattered Prince had in mind when asking for Pentos, but he was certain that Magister Illyrio would come to an arrangement<em>. </em></p><p>Their goals were his aims, if it meant that this Meereenese Knot could be tidied. He mused as he recalled his Ghiscari companion Mertyn ro Gorghol's humorous name for this monotonous debacle of the queen's based on that peculiar fashion of the whores of the Free Cities. So many strings, and so many plots. So many men who may stand on one side of the wall but hearts lay by the other.</p><p>"<em>I don't mean to solve the string</em>," Quentyn thought,"<em>for that is impossible. Only to string it to what it was before, as the steps are already known</em>." His words compensated for his butchering of the Valyrian tongue, as they all lended their swords. It was for the best, for the fingers he needed to command with his hand depended on it. Dorne and Westeros depended on it, for if the queen's dragons aided their cause, the war was won.</p><p>He remembered the perfumed fat man, his bald head shining in the firelight. He spoke softly amidst the gentle heat of their summer keep upon the Red Mountains. He wore a silken tunic, and would not appear out of place amongst the spice traders, but his father dawned on him that this man was more than a mere merchant. </p><p>"<em>My young lord</em>," he heard the man's deep voice resound heavily again with his dreadful words. They were sitting amongst a game of cyvasse while he entertained his guest. The man was discussing their game,"<em>I see we sit here at a crossroads. My young lord's skill is fair, but it is still lacking. It may appear that we are of an even hand, but in truth I have already claimed victory. This is not the final phase without good reason. The player builds his strategy the entire game for this moment, when either he loses</em>,"</p><p>He moved his piece in the Kingbreaker pose, for he had won,"<em> or he wins. But there is another crossroads I speak of, which is no mere game. It is the course of the realm, and the matters in which your father, the Prince, and I have spent decades planning the course. It is the matter that dictates whether the realm may continue in the fires of light, or the darkness of corruption. Decades have been spent building this course to undo our past wrongs, and now this is the stage of the final siege, for when the realm either emerges the victor or the doomed. I cannot impress on you the importance with solemn words alone. What you see outside, all that you hold dear, should be the flame that drives you, for they will be lost if you should fail. The queen must have her proper suitor. I cannot give his name in the case that your freedom is compromised, but you will know it. It once rang glorious through all of Westeros. A young boy, trained in the arts of kingship and wisdom, the trueborn heir to his father's kingdom. He will be the dragon queen's king, and they will give these kingdoms peace in the first time since the Usurper came unto the Iron Throne. Queen Daenerys and her dragons must come home</em>." </p><p>Their keep had been built upon the flanks of the Red Mountains. It overlooked the Boneway and served as the gateguard of Dorne against any foreigner who would attempt to pass the Red Mountains. The ancient Yronwoods had guarded that pass since the dawn of days, winning Dorne the title of the "Unconquerable." Winning the Martells their glory in the realm, as the only kingdom who survived the Conqueror's fire.</p><p>If one looked south, they could see almost all the lands of Dorne from windswept sands to distant green fields. It was what he held dear, and all his labours were to see his brother in his rightful place. But his brother the Prince Quentyn is dead, and still the queen is the Queen of Meereen. Her dragons soar above Slaver's Bay rather than the Blackwater. The queen could not have her king. But even a mummer's sun is better than none, and he must do his duty.</p><p>The perfumed man's accent was Tyroshi, his complexion Lysene or perhaps even Old Valyrian. His clothing was Braavosi, though his pattern of speaking echoed those of the Reachmen. He could have been from anywhere, though, in Westeros or the Free Cities. His skill in cyvasse was thoughtful and careful. It was still great, far surpassing any of his regular opponents save his father. His strategy was simple to understand, yet Quentyn still lost more than half of their games. He soon found, however, that their strategies were more or less the same. The fat man would arrange his pieces throughout the course of the game, sometimes losing some to Quentyn, not caring to pursue small gains. He lured him at first into complacency, then in urgency, as when the time was ripe, he unleashed his final strike that overwhelmed Quentyn's defences in one masterful stroke. Quentyn's skill was the same, though he supposed now that he had been too rash in his assaults, and thus lost more of their matches. </p><p>"<em>I must not be rash now </em> ," he thought,"<em>and I must judge the matter in a calm manner. This is my great game, and I must set the pieces for my victory</em>." He had heard that the Tattered Prince and Master Anlanq had secured the city from the Brazen Beasts and gained what he asked of them. He knew now that the true Game of Pyramids begins, and only should he wins this could the sun wed the dragon.</p><p>He realized that the swords of the Windblown would not help to soothe the child's heart, so he ordered them to sheathe their steel. The Great Pyramid was in large part cleared, and there were guards outside the room in the case that any stragglers would have any lingering loyalty to the Shavepate. The men obeyed, and his hand brushed the soft worn carpet of the floor as he knelt, forcing himself to ignore the sheen from those brown eyes.</p><p>But he needed to clear this mountain of its fog, and he dared not let his tongue unbalance his steps.</p><p>"<em>This is only a small part of the tapestry I weave</em>," he thought,"<em>but even Ghaston Grey may fall if a stone is misplaced </em>." The girl's eyes were burning in fear, even as he knelt to speak with her.</p><p>Her skin was dark, though a shade lighter than his own, flawless and pampered by the warm life of a daughter of a master. But he saw in his mind another brown-skinned face, likewise fair but tarnished with the blood that was on his own hands.</p><p>"<em>Missandei</em>," he thought," <em> That was the name of the queen's advisor, the girl's blood that had adorned the chamber of the queen </em>." It was a mistake to learn her name, to give the body a face, for he will see the same brown eyes in every child that he will meet from this day until his last day.</p><p>"What is your name?" he tried again, his voice softer but no less harsh upon the tones of Valyrian. He shook his head,"I am terrible at speaking your tongue. I hope you forgive me the slight on your honour."</p><p>Despite the dim mood of the room, the girl queerly managed a small giggle. It was a start, and her mouth slightly crooked upwards to reveal white teeth.</p><p>"You sound like one of the monkeys father bought for the Harpy's Feast last year." The men that could understand Valyrian could not stifle their amusement, and the room soon erupted into raucous laughter in mockery of their lord. Quentyn laughed as well, his lips sliding upwards, his own amusement masking the phantom pain from the scar on his left cheek. It was pure innocent joy, a notion he had not tasted since the <em> Adventure </em>sailed with the merchant's men. </p><p>The girl seemed to relax, and she dared to venture a smile. When the laughter gradually died down, the girl smiled shyly,"Who are you? My name is Jezhene, and my father was a Great Master of Meereen. We were of the noble house of Melodok. My father once owned the Golden Dome, the most beautiful pyramid of Meereen. Are you men of Ser Barristan? Your men wear the same white cloaks that he wore." </p><p>"I am Prince Quentyn Martell," he responded,"a prince of the sunset lands, the heir of a kingdom of rivers and mountains. I am one of the queen's men, as is Ser Barristan, but different men may be loyal to the same queen. I come to escort her Radiance Queen Daenerys to her rightful kingdom."</p><p>"What is your purpose here,"Jezhene asked,"if you are not men of Ser Barristan. What need do you have of her Radiance's servants."</p><p>"Do you have a family,"Quentyn asked," Who is your father? My father was also a prince, and the lord of a city called Sunspear. He is kind, steadfast, and, and the wisest man I ever knew. But I am new to these lands, and know little of its people. Is your father kind and caring?" </p><p>He had struck an ill chord.The girl nodded slowly, though her smile died," I loved him. He was everything I had. My brothers only saw a coattail in me, and the other children did not play my games. I loved him, until..." Her breaths came rapidly as she could not make her next words. She bowed her head, and Quentyn saw the glistening of fresh tears awake in the torchlight. </p><p>"<em>Her father is dead </em> ," he thought,"<em>In the sack, or in what other manner? </em>"</p><p>He cupped the girl's chin with his free hand and wrenched it softly upwards, so that her eyes again met his.</p><p>"Crying will do you no good," he said,"Would your father wish you to spend your days weeping. If he is dead, weeping will not wake his corpse. The best you can do for his memory is to be strong, and make your future so that his spirit may be proud of his daughter. In Dorne, in my land, we raise girls to be as strong as boys. We have as many Princesses to reign over us as we have Princes. They could only reign because they were strong, not weeping at every loss. Even now, there were my cousins who my people call the Sand Snakes. They are the most feared and respected in my kingdom, from brash Obara to gentle Tyene. All of them are vipers, and have you ever seen a snake weep? If you are truly your father's daughter, and wish to remember him, dry those tears and look me in the eye. Answer me boldly as if I were your equal. Be strong. I have no ill intention, but I cannot say the same for all the other men that you will meet. You will win nothing with your tears, but you may win a city of gold with your strength."</p><p>He only knew of his cousins the little that his brother had told him, but if he were to be the heir of Sunspear, he needed to act as his brother would. Even his brother had only known his cousins in passing, for Prince Oberyn's daughters would rarely visit his castle. His father would not take to them kindly, as he still remembered how their father slew his own.</p><p>He thought of his true sister, who will receive his castle now that the heir to the Boneway was dead. He wondered if she could hold the castle. Even if she could not, the Prince will make certain that she will when he comes onto his throne.</p><p>"If you can forgive my inquiry," he continued,"What is it that happened to your father, and how have you become a servant in the queen's pyramid." </p><p>The girl looked in the eye, pupils shining with a flicker of determination,"Do you really mean to make the dragon queen and her beast leave? Do you really mean to have her go back to her land, and let my home return to what it was?"</p><p>Quentyn nodded," I have only told you the truth." </p><p>Jezhene glanced at him for a long moment, as if judging his honesty, then spoke to answer his questions," We were lesser masters, only lording several hundred men. My father treated them with kindness out of the goodness of our hearts, as if they were our own children. When the dragon queen conquered the city, a bloody revolt occurred. Our men forgot their masters' kindness, giving in to their greed, and sacked our home, stealing valuables worth thousands of Honors. They stole our family tapestries, the women my mother's jewels and gowns. Everything. My father ordered my brothers to take me away in hiding while he remained with our loyal men to stop the raid. My brother never told me what he saw the next morning when he returned, and I never saw my father's body. But I heard the servants whisper that the beasts tore him limb from limb. They say that the raiders splayed his parts on the floor of the great plaza, along with the limbs of all our loyal men, to spell the words 'Mhysa.' " </p><p>"<em>Mhysa</em>," Quentyn thought,"<em>Mother. How ironic is it, that the mother plays the lawgiver and master, and I, the father, will have to play the part of love and healing?</em>"</p><p>The girl's resolve broke, and this time Quentyn could not fault her for weeping,"Mhysa. Have you ever seen a mother feed her children blood from her breasts, and gives them carrion to eat? When the night ended, my eldest brother became master of our house and a Great Master. The dragon queen called for cupbearers to serve as her hostages, and my House was chosen. My brother was all too happy to offer me, as he sought to win the queen's favor, forgetting already our father. I attended the queen personally twice. I served her loyally. I served King Hizdahr as well, when Ser Barristan found us. We were confined to our chambers in the battle. What do you mean to do with me?" </p><p>He silently thanked the Mother for providing this perfect child, and he vowed to light a candle in her service when he returned to a sept.</p><p>"I mean to right all the injustices done by the queen's rule," he assured firmly,"I once thought to depart with the queen as soon as she returns without further disturbance, but when I saw the city, I knew it was my duty to right these wrongs, starting with yours. I mean to take you home."</p><p>"<em>This is not worth the healthy bones of any Dornish spear</em>,"he thought,"<em>but one has already fallen for this cause. The greatest of them all, whose bones were that of gold. His duty calls for mine, and I must see it to the end. This Game of Pyramids hangs on this thread</em>."</p><p>He took the girl's hand in his own, and opened her palm, revealing the veined skin and soft creases, savoring in the redness of the skin. He moved his left hand off his hilt and grasped one of the golden tokens by his belt. He unclasped the string and it slid forth, free of the rough leather. The token bore the image of the Dornish sun. He found it on the bed, it having survived the embers of dragonflame. He would have wanted to give his own, to remind him of the times thousands of years ago when his house was still kings, but he must act the Dornish prince. Quentyn placed it in her palm, and closed her fingers around it. Her eyes squinted in suspicion.</p><p>"A gift to remember me by," Quentyn said," from a friend to a friend. From a prince to a princess. When I see you home, I will depart the city in short time, and leave all its men to its rightful masters. When you are a woman older and stronger, remember me."</p><p>Her lip began quivering, and she tightened her hold on the token,"Can you really take me home?"</p><p>He nodded,"I swear by my gods, the Seven who are One. I swear on my oath as a knight. I swear by the Maiden who holds my oath as a knight to defend all women. I swear it by the Mother, who my oath bids for me to protect the young and innocent. I swear it by the Father, whose light guides my steel to justice and righteousness.  I want what is best, for all those in Meereen, and I only need one thing. A simple request to make. A single phrase to utter. You hold the scepter, and you may cast down my cause. I only need from you one thing."</p><p>"What is it?"the girl asked.</p><p>He told her the tale she needed to tell, and the fires danced in her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>They say that the Temple of the Graces housed the Spirit of the Great Harpy, and it presides over the future and prosperity of Meereen.</p><p>"<em>I do not believe it houses the divine, </em> " Quentyn thought,"<em>but I can still find a Harpy here </em>."</p><p>It is of greatest honour to be entombed there. All the bones of the masters were burned to ash, as even a temple as large as the Great Sept of Baelor could not house the bodies of all the late Great Masters. Their ashes were placed in cairns said to have been made and blessed with the holy hands of the temple's graces. The cairns lined a great hall built in their honour, a torch-lit path that spanned the centre of the Temple. If one were to converse with the gods' mortal voice, one would need to pass the Holy Halls to meet the Green Grace.</p><p>Before the queen conquered the city, the Great Masters would convene in a council every year to elect a representative that would lead the city in that year. This man would have been bid by tradition to undertake a formal ceremonial journey through the Hall of Sorrows in order to receive the blessing of the Green Grace. By the ashes of his fathers, he receives guidance and wisdom from the lives of his forbears that will guide him through his reign. From the sorrows and failures of the past, he will find his shortcomings and rectify them for the future.</p><p>"<em>Curious</em>," Quentyn thought," <em> The guide could have marched us through the Hall of Spirits or the Hall of Kings, yet he chose the longer route</em>."</p><p>He smiled,"<em> The Harpies choose their master well. </em>"</p><p>The Green Grace wore a draping of vibrant emerald silk, its folds laid in with gems and pearls. The Meereenese had called this clothing a tokar, a token of a master's honour. It was the customary adornment of a Meereenese noble. The Grace had refused to meet him unless he paid heed to the city's traditions. Quentyn had chosen a tokar of deep mahogany, plain and humble upon his own dark skin. He would have preferred to be adorned in red and orange, the colors that would befit the heir of Sunspear, but the queen's wardrobe left much for a man to desire.</p><p>All the arts of the foot taught by his master-of-arms could not prepare him for the awkwardness of the Meereenese bearings. To much of his men's chagrin, he stumbled many times and almost fell on three occasions. The guide's eyes became more and more amused as Quentyn further bruised his own dignity.</p><p>"<em>I should have let Arch bear this torture </em> ," he mused as he regretted his own decision," <em> I </em> <em> could have revealed myself in proper attire when I met the Grace, and told our hosts that he was my mummer in the case that a foe sought to ambush us</em>." His heavily built cousin would fare even worse, though, as held not the graceful footing of a lord's heir. His skin was dark enough to fool a common man, as Ser Gerris and the others all sported varying shades of light. His looks would have served to be the best mummer, but his behavior the worst. </p><p>Quentyn thanked the Seven that he had the basic mastery of the steps of the tokar before entering the Green Grace's presence. It would not do to give the impression of an uncouth man. The nervous chatters of the children rose as they neared their destination.</p><p>The steel that he wore under his tokar had done little to help his balance. He had also brought the best of the Windblown to shield his presence. The stifling heat of Meereen burned him through the many layers, exceeding even the heat of the Red Mountains. He was willing to exchange comfort for safety, and common arrows could not pierce his armour.</p><p>"<em>But they could find the chinks </em> ,"Quentyn thought,"<em>and I wear no helm. This temple could hide a hundred men, and even Lord Galagon the Valiant could not fend a hundred knives. But those knives will find me eventually, if I do not make this journey </em>."</p><p>The steel was as cold, though, as the old catacombs under his castle, its stain seeping through the woolen cloth of his shirt and grazing his skin with frigidness. It strangely soothed his steps, himself tasting the same emptiness that he had feared whenever his father would give light to his wrongs.</p><p>The Grace sat upon a carved golden throne raised on several layers of stone. Her pedestal bore carvings of ancient heroes and kings. He saw a man wrestling a wyrm, black blood dripping onto the carved sands below. He saw a greybearded king kneel with his host before a sun, their steel cracked and their arms sagging. He saw a naked youth make love to his lover, a beautiful woman whose skin twinkled in the torchlight on the stones. Her hair was flame, however, and in her hand she held a hidden dagger.</p><p>The last carving would never see the eyes of men in a sept of the Seven. Perhaps in the houses of the northmen, whose traditions were more akin to savages. In their houses, perhaps there is greater tolerance for the flaunting of pleasure and seed. White Graces attended their high priestess, but otherwise there were no others within the atrium. Beyond the shadows of the pillars, there may lurk unseen assassins. He tightened his hand that balanced his tokar, and slipped the other into the folds to grasp the hidden hilt.</p><p>Quentyn took small steps towards the Grace, and his companions followed. The servants that led them to the atrium, knowing their duty was done, bowed and withdrew. Quentyn and his sellswords approached the throne, stopping in the middle of the room so as to not appear a threat. There was no light to be shone from the noon sun outside, but numerous torches that burned lit the room as bright as if it were upon the tip of the Great Pyramid. There were seven great sconces lining the pillars of each side of the atrium, from which burned white flame. They stopped in the light of the largest sconce, a bronze torchbearer with an engraved depiction of an enormous being bearing a crown of light like the angelic Father. He could be seen giving fire to a host of diminutive forms. These forms were small, misshapen, and ugly. </p><p>His men were cast under the mighty brilliance of the largest torch. </p><p>The priestess's face remained as still as a mountain as they approached, her viper-like eyes scrutinizing Quentyn's company. She did not give welcome, but her eyes seemed to find one amongst their company, and for a moment her lips twitched upwards in a smile before setting it into stone a moment after. She was grasping a wineglass that she held gingerly. When they stopped, set it upon the silver table before her.</p><p>Taking it as a sign of good will, Quentyn stepped forward. He advanced three minor paces, and bowed to the waist in the manner of Meereenese tradition.</p><p>"Your Grace," Quentyn declared," I, Quentyn of the noble House of Martell, heir and emissary of the Prince of Dorne, give you my most sincere greetings. I thank you for the privilege to be a guest in your grand halls."</p><p>The Green Grace's lips twisted up again, displaying a hint of a smile. She raised her wineglass as if to take a sip, but decided against it.</p><p>"Your Radiance, I presume,"her voice was melodious but laced with steel. Quentyn smiled,"I dare not beseech that honour. Her Radiance is Queen Daenerys, and His Radiance is King Hizdahr. I am no king, only a prince."</p><p>"Are you not this city's king, for your men hold its streets. They city is yours, I believe. Blood was shed in the streets, and blood in the sacred pyramids. Mazhdan the Magnificent never called himself a king, as his father was not yet dead, yet he was a conqueror all the same, for he made Meereen his slave and swallowed in the streets and court in the shadow of his arrogance. Are you not this city's ruler? Do you not hold the city's steel?"</p><p>"<em>I cannot be Quentyn the Conqueror </em> ," he thought," <em> if I am to live for more than a day. I am Quentyn the Sun's Son. When the Meereenese speak of my name in tales, they will call me Quentyn the Bright </em>."</p><p>"If you seek to have me deny the actions made on my orders, you are grievously mistaken. I will do what I must do for peace."</p><p>"What peace is it that you seek?" she asked, her tone curious.</p><p>He judged his words carefully, for these may hold his rule in balance,"Let me be frank. I do not believe that the city is conciliated with the queen's rule. If one would take a look outside, he would be mindful of that truth. It was not fault of the queen though, as she is merciful and well-intentioned. It was the ill counsel of her lickspittles that led her astray. I do not believe you have heard of the true nature of the old knight who they call Barristan the Bold. His cloak may appear white, but it bore many colours, and like the wind his loyalties blew from one king to another. It is not without cause that knights would be exiled from their lands to chance upon an exile queen. The girl Missandei is young but devious. And the Shavepate, but I believe you already know of him. He sacrificed the peace that was achieved to make his own end. It was he who poisoned the locusts at the queen's feast, hoping to provoke another war. I myself come from Westeros as a messenger from my father the Prince of Dorne. I come to escort her to sit upon her rightful throne in the Seven Kingdoms. I have purged the temples of her lickspittles, and taken the city to maintain its order. When the queen returns, I mean to take her to the kingdom she is meant to rule. That is the peace I wish to give, the peace that Meereen saw before the queen. I have no wish to rule a kingdom that is not mine, and I would prefer a peaceful reign than a sack." </p><p>The Green Grace's eyes betrayed no emotion, but she set down her glass,"Is this what you have come to ask of me? I do not harbor any delusion that the queen may return, and I hope that you may realize it too. Do you come to ask of me to pray and make sacrifice so that the winds of your reign will be smooth, and that the queen may return. Do you seek the gods' approval?"</p><p>He shook his head," When the Shavepate resisted our rule, he sought to use the queen's cupbearers as hostages. It was fortunate that my men stormed the pyramid and secured their safety before the hands of the Brazen Beasts could be laid on them. I thought to return the children to their families, but the city itself has not yet been secured, and many criminals still roam the streets. The Shavepate is dead, and so are many of his compatriots, but his men still lurk in the streets.  I first thought to return them to a place where they would be safe if not into the arms of their kin. My first consideration was the place of the highest authority in this city, the place where the gods cast their light, and the place where even the hardiest of criminals would not dare to offend. I thought to give them into your custody, so they might be safe in the Temple of the Graces. I am a chaste and humble man, and I need not the extravagant frivolities befitting a queen. I shall still need cupbearers of my own, of course, to serve my meals, pour my wine, and light the fires of my chamber so that I may not feel cold at night, but I shall not need them all."</p><p>"You wish to give the children into the protection of the gods?"</p><p>Quentyn nodded,</p><p>"May I speak to them?" she asked.</p><p>"Of course," Quentyn answered, and signalled for his guards to part. The children that they shielded came forward to venture closer to the Graces. The Green Grace beckoned them closer, and they came within an arm's reach of her throne.</p><p>"What happened, my dears,"she asked," in the queen's pyramid?"</p><p>They stared at one another, until the boy named Grazhar spoke up,"We were in our chambers, as we knew there were war outside. Suddenly, the streets erupted into uproar, and we saw columns of men marching to our pyramid."</p><p>"They wore masks of all the beasts," Jezhene continued,"but a white cloaked force met them, and they broke quickly and fled. We were found by Prince Quentyn's men and brought to safety."</p><p>The Green Grace looked beyond their heads at Quentyn, and he nodded in affirmation. The Grace ordered some of her servants to lead the children away, and directed her questions at Quentyn yet again," Is this all of your purpose?"</p><p>Quentyn nodded," That is all I wished for this meeting, and I am glad we are in accord. I must beg my leave, for there are still many matters of the city that I shall need to attend. King Hizdahr has held a council to deliberate on the city's future, and I must attend. Ser Barristan's and Grey Worm's brigands still fight outside the city, a threat to the security of the peace I have forged."</p><p>She paused for a moment,"If that is your duty, then I shall not delay you. However, as regent of the city, you must be privy to the will of the gods. I insist that two of my White Graces accompany you to attend to your service. They may provide anything you may require."</p><p>"Very well," he said.</p><p>The Green Grace called for two of her attendants to descend the throne and meet Quentyn. They curtsied before him, revealing the bodice that hid little by their dove-like dresses. Their faces were pretty enough, though he knew prettier Dornish girls. He did not look twice.</p><p>"If that is your will, then I shall see to it. If you may excuse us, we shall depart. I thank you again for allowing this meeting."</p><p>The Green Grace smiled a great smile,"You look a great deal like Mazhdan the Magnificent. He was the crownless king that Meereen boasted of when it was still a kingdom, and his blood lives on through the noblest masters. Do you know how he died?"</p><p>Quentyn knew, but pretended not to.</p><p>"He was poisoned by his would-be queen, the night before he would be formally crowned king."</p><p>The Green Grace rose from her throne, and descended the steps, her tokar trailing in her wake. Her White Graces made to follow, but she stopped them with her hand.</p><p>She took Quentyn in her embrace, and whispered in his ear,"I give you the advice that I should have given him before he attempted his folly. A dragon loves not sheep, for they are its prey, but another dragon whose flame can match her own."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. THE OATHKEEPER</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The land had seen rain, and the hooves of their horses made wet squelches in the mud. His brother's clumsy squire had fallen in the last hour, and even now he looked less a man and more one of those lizard lions that Daven spoke of that infested the waters of the Neck. The squire had joined them when he and Brienne first journeyed into the wood.</p><p>Two years ago, the two-handed knight would have laughed at such a jest, and his brother would have made it. They would have drunk together at one of the feasts in the Red Keep, heedless of a whore of times long past. Cersei would have stared his brother down with cold emerald eyes no matter what he said, but her smile would be all the same when night came.</p><p>"<em>It may serve us better, though</em>," he thought,"<em>If a bandit were to come upon us, he would be less like to chance his luck if we had a mud-strewn monster in our midst, if he dared already to challenge that scar </em>."</p><p>"<em>All of us are monsters, in one way or another</em>," he mused,"<em>and I the most of all</em>." They made for an amusing sight, a woman knight, a filthy squire, and a Kingslayer.</p><p>It will serve Podrick better as well, for no blooded man had fear for a leather-clad boy who could barely hold a sword. The rivers in these lands were not yet made clean, and that black fish may still lay hidden with his school of vengeful trout.</p><p>"<em>It will not turn Lord Brynden</em>," he thought,"<em>but it may discourage common broken men. Not enough for those in the likes of the Hound, but enough for the peasants that lost their way in the war. And wolves. The wolves that howl, and the wolves that speak in the deep northern tongue</em>." It struck him again how foolish it was to journey alone. It would have taken him and Daven at least months to make the roads safe to travel, and years before the common folk would dare to forget the war. That is, if they survived the winter.</p><p>"<em>He will have to do that alone</em>," Jaime thought,"<em>I would have kept with him, if I did not have a greater duty. It would be simple, and I would join him soon anyway. He should not think to move the camp from Pennytree until I return, and two days is not too long a wait. Still, I would not have betrayed, betrayed my house, if my white cloak was not already stained too much for all the unrighteous blood I shed. I swore to serve my family, and I swore to serve the lady. I keep one oath, and I break another again. But I am Kingslayer in the eyes of gods and men. Let me be named Oathkeeper once before I die. Perhaps the Stark girl will remember who saved her life, and perhaps she will tell her mother in the Seven Heavens that Jaime Lannister was once an honourable man. Perhaps for the first time in twenty years, a Stark will say that Jaime Lannister is a true knight</em>." He would not have been able to tell Lady Catelyn himself, for he knew that he was already doomed to rot in eternity in the Seven Hells. The Father would be unrighteous is he ruled otherwise.</p><p>Two years ago, he would have laughed at Podrick's motley sight, should he have been the golden-haired champion that he was before, but Jaime Lannister the one-handed only saw the trail of the steps of the squire's horse, regretting how the world had chosen his own.</p><p>He gazed at the squire again, contemplating what he was to do with him. His brother had told him that Podrick was loyal, which was all Jaime needed of him. The dwarf had told him that he was kind as well. If that was true, he would regret it, but it will have to be weaned out of him. His grandfather could attest to that.</p><p>When they rescued the girl from the Hound, and made certain that his sister's slender fingers could not wrap themselves upon her throat, he would find Podrick a place in the Lannister host. He wondered what Ser Ilyn would think of his kinsman, though Jaime presumed that the mute knight could not even tell his own brother, much less his brother's son's nephew. If he had any memory of his past life as the Justice of the Red Keep's dungeons, then he never told Jaime in their midnight bouts.</p><p>He would find Podrick a proper knight to squire for and learn the arts of lance and sword. Strongboar, perhaps, or Addam Marbrand. His cousin Daven would suffice as well. Perhaps one of his fellow Kingsguard. Balon Swann would do, or Meryn Trant, though he would need to watch that his cruelty would not wash off on Podrick. Both were skilled enough with a blade, and could at least teach their squire the arts of war properly. If the young knight or his father could agree, he would prefer if Loras Tyrell took his charge. Not Kettleblack nor Blount though, for they were too incompetent.</p><p>He could take his squire's as his own, though another will have to train him until Jaime could regain his old skill.</p><p>The boy will have as bright a future as could be hoped. It was the little good that he could do him after his father's sentence upon the poor boy. He had been loyal to his brother, however misguided that was, and was loyal to his knight beyond his duty. He would have as good a chance to win glory and honour as any lord's son. If he proves worthy, he would be made Ser Podrick Payne. He could win lands, marry, and father a dynasty of his own should he earn the honours in battle. Perhaps he could become a companion to Tommen as well. The crown will need loyal men, and his son needed boys who were of an age with him, so that they would grow to be as close as he and his brother were. He could be to Toomen as Jaime was to Daven and Lancel, and a man would have to eventually forsake his mother's skirt.</p><p>He would make certain that the boy could have his life's content should he have the skill and cunning. The name of Ser Podrick Payne may be told in generations to come. Jaime could only hope for himself that his own name would be spelled amongst the likes of Lucamore Strong and Terrence Toyne.</p><p>"<em>I will never be Duncan the Tall</em>," he realized grimly,"<em>nor Aemon the Dragonknight. Nor Barristan the Bold. But my tale has not ended, and some men may still sing of Jaime the Oathkeeper should I fulfill this vow</em>." He would not care, though, if the Kingslayer was the only moniker that men would ever name this lion.</p><p>"How far are we from the Hound? We should be near, as we have rode for a day," he muttered audibly as his eyes wandered the surrounding forest. The river ran as blue as the afternoon sky above. It was still autumn, before the skies would turn gray to hail the winter's clouds. Small pebbles would sometimes dance to the music of the trees and the songs of the wind. The leaves had begun to change, and he was greeted by the glimmering golden glow of the dying forest.</p><p>"The lion's leaves," his mother had named them in the time of his youth that he almost forgot, for the leaves changed to the colours of the Lannister sigil in autumn.</p><p>"<em>Death's leaves</em>," he thought, as some crunched beneath his feet, for red and gold were the portents of the forest's death in the cold. He silently snickered as he thought how apt his mother's name had been.</p><p>Though the wood glared a different sheen, Jaime could never forget the road that he had traveled in chains. It still tingled his remembrance with the same shadows of the trees elongating, as he rode instead of sailed. They were three then, and they were three now.</p><p>"Not far," he heard the response from the burly figure before him. It turned, and Jaime saw the face that none would dare call a beauty ever again, in mockery or in genuine truth. She had removed his bandage a few hours before, and he saw the horrors that he would only have seen in the aftermath of a battle. He wondered if she had a fight with the Hound, but there were bite marks on her cheek that were only half-healed. He knew Sandor Clegane was capable of many things, but in this he would not be faithful to his moniker. Sandor Clegane was, after all, Joffrey's dog at court for almost as long as his son had lived though little love was lost between them, and the Hound was not his brother. The Hound may have drawn other men, criminals and bandits of all sorts like him. It would not be strange if one were more beast than man.</p><p>The girl would be most certainly spoiled, if his brother had not already claimed his rights. The best he could hope was the Hound kept her to himself, for Jaime at least knew that he had his bounds.</p><p>Brienne wore a mask of disdain and tiredness, and the red lump that was her cheek's scar pulsed as she spoke,"The Hound and Lady Sansa were by the river upstream, as I told you. This river runs for miles, and after a time there will be thicker foliage. Once we pass it, we shall come to a clearing, and they are there."</p><p>She turned her head quickly, so Jaime lost sight of the bandage that was quickly covered by the straw hair of her unhelmed head.</p><p>Ser Ronnet had once said that when the candlelight died, every woman was the same. But every man will still have to share in the candlelight with his bride in their waking moments, and see the beauty of her face whenever they are bid to appear together.</p><p>Cersei had only loved Robert for as much as he could keep true to his marriage, but she had him.</p><p>"<em>And Osmund Kettleblack</em>," the dwarf's slimy voice chimed again,"<em>and Lancel, and Moon Boy for all I know </em>."But she had loved him, surely, as Jaime had loved her? She bore him two sons and a daughter.</p><p>"<em>Why should I hear his words</em>," Jaime thought," <em>Cersei always hated the dwarf, and it seems her fear was not ill-founded, as our father would know. A monster twists his words, and a monster's friend listens </em>."</p><p>But his love was most like to be gone now, lost to the beasts of King's Landing. She had needed Jaime to be her white knight, to be her man of honour.</p><p>Many of the stories of his mother in his youth were lost to memory, but he remembered one. One of the legends of Lann the Clever wresting the Rock from the Casterlys was that Lann had made love to all the Casterly maidens, and they all bore the heirs bearing the blood of the sly lion. His mother had dismissed that claim as ridiculousness, not choosing to believe any of the tales of Lann breaching the walls of Casterly Rock with some simple trick that were immortalized in song.</p><p>"Lann was a conqueror," his mother had said," and a great strategist, elsewise his blood would not flow through your father's veins. They say Casterly Rock was not ever successfully assaulted before, but it was once, if Lann the Clever was a real man. He was a warlord, captured Casterly Rock for his own, and made the lion the sigil of House Lannister."</p><p>"But I will tel you the tale anyway, of Lann and his maidens. It is said that of all the maidens of which he spilled his seed, he loved only one. He took her to be his queen once he ascended the throne of the Casterlys. They ruled in peace, for many years and many winters, for their love was very great. Their people loved them, for they were like shadows of one another. The perfect king and queen, as golden as the sunrise. She bore him two sons, and one daughter. The same of which I bore your father, if the child in my womb is another boy. But it was at the eve of their third summer that they ruled, when doom came. It was the last days of winter, when Lann and his sons rode from his castle to hunt the beasts that ravaged one of their villages. His queen, impatient for his return, rode unheeding of the castle steward's warning to greet her love. Lann's rule was fair and just, but even so the worst of men would dare to slight his kindness and be company with crime. The name of the most vile bandit that roamed the land was the Woolen Demon, for his cloak was often plain and in tatters to better suit his fleeing from the law. He terrorized the lands, and the weak of the land were forced to pay him homage to avoid the strike of his club. Lann worked tirelessly to defeat this threat, but his efforts were all made in vain, for the Demon was always one step ahead of his horse. It was on this day that he heard that Lann's loved wife journeyed with only a small escort to greet her husband's return, and he hatched a malicious plan. The party of Lann's queen was ambushed by the Demon's men, and they were slaughtered to a man. The criminal took the queen prisoner, and demanded that Lann give him a hefty ransom of gold, which he sought to use to flee Lann's lands and make his own kingdom in the Riverlands. When the king received this message, he agreed, and the criminal divulged his location to pay the ransom. But Lann arrived with the full force of his host, and put down the threat to his kingdom once and for all. His wife was killed by the demon's spite, but he had done his duty as a king, and he never took another queen. Her name was lost to history, and her body was entombed with the kings in the deepest catacombs of Casterly Rock. None in recent memory have ever dared to journey into those halls. Those that tried never came back again. The passageways to the tombs of the Old Kings had been blocked by an avalanche of rocks centuries ago, and we have never troubled to try and find the tombs of our dead fathers. We never need to, for it is first our duty for our kingdom, then to family. That is what you and Jaime need to learn. The kingdom of the Lannisters is first and foremost, and kin comes later. Love each other, but do not love each other more than Casterly Rock."</p><p>That night, he and Cersei played with each other as they laid in their bed, and her mother's servant had found them. They had been confined to opposite sides of the castle, until Cersei begged their father to let them share a chamber after their mother had died. His love for Cersei was like the green fire, and he was glad that it was so.</p><p>"<em>It was Aerys's fire too</em>,"he thought,"<em>and Cersei's in those mad moments when the tower burned</em>." It would doom him, but he would embrace it.</p><p>"<em>I am Lann now </em>," he thought,"<em>and my love is in the hands of my enemies. Do I keep to her?"</em></p><p>Half the kingdom knew the truth, and the other half knew but were loyal to Tommen. He had given too much to love his sister, and he was loath to relinquish it.</p><p>"<em>Osmund Kettleblack </em>," the monster's words echoed again,"<em>Lancel, and Moon Boy for all I know</em>." It left an eerie silence. He realized that his brother was gone, and that the friend he loved will never return to the monster that lived now in his soul. No man could fill the hole he left behind. Not Daven, nor any of the Westerlander lords. He swore to love no other woman as well. Only Cersei, and she was in the claws of another Woolen Demon.</p><p>He cut his thoughts, as he knew what he must do once he returned with the Stark girl to their camp at Pennytree. He had not heeded the letter, ignoring her desperate plea, but he knew now that he must. Cersei was the only person left to him, and he was fortunate to have known more love than Brienne will ever know. He will march his host, small as it may be, to King's Landing and oust her foes from their thrones, damn the consequences. He would save his love, and make Tommen's world together. He will still hold his oath to the crown, and he will protect his kin.</p><p>"<em>We came into this world together</em>," Jaime thought,"<em>if I should fail, then let us leave this world together. Let them curse our names, for in the fires of hell we will not hear. Their words do not matter, for we are a pair of lions, as golden as the sun, and all other beasts should show fear. I love you, and you love me. That is all that matters. Only us</em>."</p><p>But those were the thoughts that another Jaime would have thought, the Jaime that still had two hands, and could rival the Warrior in a duel.</p><p>"<em>This is not me</em>," he thought,"<em>Jaime Lannister would never have doubted himself. The tempered steel was my father, and Aunt Genna was right. It was my brother as well. I am not my father's son, and I never wished to be</em>."</p><p>His father never praised the skill of Jaime's steel, for he was always a disappointment in the matters that Lord Tywin deemed fit for a suitable heir.</p><p>"All men can command one sword," his father had said,"Few can command ten thousand. A lion should command them all." His brother was what his father wanted, but could not see. He was what his father saw, but could not want.</p><p>Brienne is neither. She would never be her father's suitable daughter. If she were his son, as she had wished, perhaps, but not a daughter. The Sapphire Isle could bribe a suitable lord to take her, but she will never win the honour she deserved. In their eyes, mail is never a woman's dress. She is a truer knight than most of them could ever dream to be. Why would he love Cersei, when she is a poison that he will drink to his death. Could he still win himself from death's door, and drink the clean water that is ready to be sipped from this day until his last day. He could live his last days in honour, and in the company of honour.</p><p>"<em>It is not love</em>," he chided himself,"<em>It is respect for a hero, as I would have looked upon the Blackfish or the Sword of the Morning in my youth. My love is Cersei's only, and an honourable knight will never have me</em>." The Kingslayer and Sisterfucker was not worth the love of a hero. Though she was sure to be disillusioned years ago, would she still love a white knight? Will she love a man of honour?</p><p>"What's our plan?" he asked,"I forgot to ask you." It struck him how foolish it was to not pursue her design, for he was all too caught up in his own musings.</p><p>After a short moment, the answer came.</p><p>"The Hound had several men with him," Brienne said,"We cannot take him by force. I might be able to fend his steel with Oathkeeper, but you and Pod will soon fall to his beasts. I had thought that since the Hound was your man before, you could take him into your service again."</p><p>Jaime laughed,"The Cleganes were my father's men, and they were never the most loyal. Sandor Clegane was King Joffrey's dog. If they could not command his loyalty, how could I?"</p><p>"You could command it with how your father did," he heard Brienne answer," I heard Ser Gregor is dead. You could offer him a pardon, and give him his castle. Casterly Rock's vaults are still teeming with gold, if I'm not mistaken."</p><p>"Gold and lands," Jaime jested," You do not know Sandor Clegane, if you think these will sway him. His sole want was to kill his elder brother, and I had heard that my lord father had stolen that honour from him.</p><p>"Even if you could not sway him, it will sway his men. Broken men are to gold as sailors are to Tarth in a storm. Some of them were lions, some of them wolves. All are wretches, and they may seek nothing more than a dog would, gold and home. If you can sway them, perhaps we can take the Hound, and rescue Lady Sansa."</p><p>He wondered how Brienne had gained this newfound wisdom. The woman he knew would not go on to spout sermons as a septon would.</p><p>Her idea had merit, though,"<em>If I had two hands, maybe. Brienne was a fair fighter, but I had fought the Hound before in the melees of King's Landing. The golden sword of the golden lion had won most of their bouts, but unless Brienne picked up astonishing skill in their short time parted, Clegane will surely slay her</em>."</p><p>"<em>Perhaps I could act as bait</em>," he thought,"<em>and surround the Hound from all sides. It could be a fitting end should he kill me, as Brienne would be able to slay him. When they lay my corpse by the Lannister kings of old, by the tombs of my father and grandfather, perhaps I will be worthy to be buried as a lion. I shall give the bards one more song to sing in the taverns of the Seven Kingdoms. They will sing of the Kingslayer's last noble act, to save the daughter of a foe, and fulfill the last oath he made</em>."</p><p>But her other words unsettled him,"<em>Why would she wait until now, until I asked, to tell me her plan?" </em>He himself had been too preoccupied with his musings, but he now noted it.</p><p>"<em>I won't be able to save the girl </em>," he thought," <em>if my mind is taken off track. She never told me, yet she never did divulge her plans when we traveled together in the Riverlands, so why should she chnage is my last chance, anyways, to prove my worth </em>."</p><p>"<em>Lady Catelyn </em>," he thought," <em>I will give you a child for a child. A daughter for a son. Though I was not the one who took your boy's life, the Greyjoy would never have killed him if he still had his legs and journeyed south with us. Perhaps one more son would have made your wolf boy see sense, and he would willingly lose that iron crown of his. The Freys would never have been needed, and I would sooner trust a Stark than a Bolton. This is my penance. I give you your daughter. She will have every comfort in Casterly Rock. Without Joffrey or that vile monster, I would find her a suitable husband amongst my bannerman. I will make certain that she will be ever free from Cersei's claws, even if she killed my son. She can never be Sansa Stark again, for that name will earn her doom, but peace will serve her much better. Our names may be our greatest blessings, but more oftentimes our greatest curse. A Lannister always pays his debts, and I will pay mine </em>."</p><p>"I see you still have that sword," Jaime said as he eyed the lion pommel that sat upon Brienne's saddle,"How did Ned Stark's steel fare?"</p><p>"I never used it," came the reply,"If anyone were harboring the Stark girls, they would most certainly hide from the men that bear the sigil of your lion."</p><p>"It's a pity," Jaime said," My father always dreamed of wielding a Valyrian blade. Though a sword was never his strength, he would have wanted the respect that all men gather towards a man who bears Valyrian steel. Houses that have Valyrian blades are always prouder than houses without. Even those that used to own one think themselves above common men. There is a legend in the Westerlands, that the Valyrian blade that one of the Iron pirates use, a sword called Red Rain, was once a sword of the Westerland knights. It is said that it was the ancestral blade of House Reyne, hence the name of the sword. They said that an Ironborn pirate seized it off the corpse of an ancient Reyne knight, but the house never admitted it, nor will they ever. House Reyne was prouder than all the rest, and my father drowned them in Castamere. My father meant for me to have that sword, for he knew that the Lannister blade should be wielded by the Lannister lord. But I am not prideful enough to be the lion's lord. That blade is sharp, and could cut through any mail. It's a sign of authority as much as it is a tool of war. Most knights would delight in wielding such steel. Perhaps if I did, I could have a few more Riverlander lords submit truthfully to the crown. But it was used for a greater purpose, and I do not regret my choice. Though if you'd used it properly, the Hound's head would have been at my feet now. Did Clegane give you that scar?"</p><p>She did not turn her head, and for a while they rode in silence. Podrick glanced at her, his eyes betraying an expression of either fear or concern.</p><p>"<em>I would feel the same </em>," he thought," <em>if I were still a squire, and half my knight's face eaten off by a monster </em>."</p><p>"It was not the Hound," came the answer at last," it was one of his men. I think his name was Biter. He was one of your lion men, as he wore the surcoat of your lands."</p><p>"<em>Biter </em>," he pondered in curiosity," <em>One of the Mountain's Men in Harrenhal mentioned in passing that they had once a companion with that name, or a nickname similar to it. Could it be the same man? If so, then perhaps there is a chance, if there are similar men amongst the Hound's retinue. There is one thing that deserters want the most dearly. Some desert out of anger, some out of fear. All of them want, a want that was fulfilled all too much when they saw too much in the carnage of war. Half a year into a campaign, or perhaps even shorter, a soldier would grow tired of foreign lands and want to go home again. He would regret that he ever wanted to leave, for the feigned glory of battle would never compare to green fields and warm hands. All soldiers want to go home again. If one would visit a village, only the hardiest of greybeards would be eager to tell tales of their victories they won in their youth. Most would sit in silence when remembering the fields that they had marched and burned, the friends that had fallen, and the sicknesses that had spread, relishing silently in the warm fires of a home that they might never have been able to return to. My brother and I would often journey into the taverns near Lannisport when we were still boys. I wonder what he thought of it. I only hungered to listen to the tales of war, dreaming of my own glory. Now I want the same as all soldiers, three things. A warm hearth, peace, and the woman I love. Even a monster may want for home.</em>"</p><p>He mused in silence, with the only clatter the faint imprints of his hooves in the ever-thicker mud. They may have to resort to travel by foot soon, and lead their horses if the path by the river proved more treacherous. He closed his eyes, attempting to relish in the singing of the birds and the flow of the river, until only silence prevailed. It was an eerie silence, and he thought he could hear the faint howls of wolves. The oozing scar that permeated the side of Brienne's face suddenly appeared, and he saw a monstrous man looming over her corpse, his teeth glinting with blood. Jaime opened his eyes and sought to look into the trees, but the image of the scar was still there.</p><p>"Brienne," he called,"Can you turn your face around? I don't mind it."</p><p>She did,"What, Ser Jaime?"</p><p>He thought for a moment, but he must do this. He was still Lord Commander, and they still had a vow of honour and duty, even for a Kingslayer.</p><p>"Have you given any thought, my lady, of what you are to do if we succeed? Where will you go, when your vow is fulfilled and Lady Sansa is safe. To Evenfall Hall, and wait for a husband that will never come. Or do you wish to wander from host to host, selling your sword and your honour, but they will all see you the same because you are a woman in mail. I think not, but there is still a path that you may tread, a path that an honourable man would serve. You have already won more honours worthy of being knighted than most men. I can knight you, or if you do not want to be knighted by the Kingslayer, I may ask one of my sister's bannerman or another Kingsguard. King Tommen needs the most worthy guards around him, and my nephew needs them to be loyal and honourable. I am its Lord Commander, and have the authority to appoint successors to replace past losses. It is the most prestigious post in the realm, and its members hold to a vow of honour and duty. I offer, no I plead with you, to heed this chance and aid me in shielding my nephew. Both he and you should have bright futures. The Kingsguard will see no better knight."</p><p>He could remove Blount or Kettleblack, for there was precedent in the dismissal of a Kingsguard. If Barristan the Bold could be discarded, then the men scarce worthy to be knights could as well.</p><p>"<em>Kingsguard also work closely together </em>," he thought, though his duty compelled him to not think too far into his lust.</p><p>Brienne's eyes were brimming with tears,"Why did you come, Jaime?"</p><p>Her question perplexed him, and he responded," You are the most perfect that I had the honour to know, and I knew Gerold Hightower, Arthur Dayne, and Barristan Selmy. You kept to every vow you made, served every man and woman you swore to truthfully. You could not have killed Renly, for you are much too honourable for that. You kept your oath to Catelyn Stark even beyond her grace. You kept to every vow you took. I wished to be you, but I knew that I could not. I broke every vow that I made. Let me keep this one."</p><p>Her eyes did not dry, and she wiped at it with her mailed sleeve,"Jaime, do you think that we have been in this wood before?"</p><p>"No," Jaime replied," unknowing of her intent," we've never been here."</p><p>"There were three of us," she continued, turning her head away," you, me, and Ser Cleos. There are three of us now as well. Do you see that log, so similar to the one we passed that day by the trees with the hanging limbs. Our party seems the same as before. I am who I was. Pod is you at that time, sullen and sad, though he is a great deal more timid. And you, Jaime, you are Ser Cleos now."</p><p>His mind began to put together the pieces. That day was the day Ser Cleos fell. Her enigmatic manner, and her reluctant divulging of her plans. She responded strangely to his questions.</p><p>" <em>And I am Ser Cleos now </em>,"he realized, and the final piece fell in place.</p><p>He turned his courser rapidly, and spurred his horse forward with all the speed they could muster to flee. He did not know if it were the Blackfish and the northmen or bandits such as the Brotherhood, he knew only that he had walked into a trap.</p><p>Arrows struck the behind of his horse, and it reared, causing Jaime to tumble onto the ground painfully. He quickly gathered himself and made to rise, half drawing his sword from his sheath. Before his steel could be drawn, he found the steel tips of a dozen bows directed at him. Their strings were drawn at full notch. He dropped his sword.</p><p>A man came before him, a tall bearded man with faded robes and armour present in patches upon his torso. His eyes burned with copper flame, and he bore a ruby pendant on his wrist.</p><p>"<em>Thoros of Myr</em>," he thought, remembering the priest's face from King's Landing,"<em>This is the Brotherhood. Lord Beric's band</em>." It strangely comforted him, for Beric Dondarrion knew better than to kill Jaime Lannister when he could be used as a valuable hostage against the crown, though Jaime braced himself for several more months in a foe's dungeon, this time not in the hand of a king but a brigand. It could not be worse, however, as Robb Stark was a vengeful captor, and Beric Dondarrion had been a lord once.</p><p>The red priest struck Jaime on the head with the pommel of his sword, and all went black.</p><p>Jaime woke to the chatter of a thousand men.</p><p>"<em>Not a thousand</em>," he thought, shaking away the cloudiness of sleep,"<em>The Brotherhood only numbered in the hundreds at most</em>." His arms were bound behind him, and he was seated with his back against a tree. It was not the most comfortable position, but it tasted sweet compared to the times when would be bathed in his own shit in the dungeons of Riverrun.</p><p>"<em>And now my watch begins yet again</em>," he jested, glad that he had not lost his sense of humour. It seems that the men assembled before him had lost theirs long ago. They were in a clearing, and he was far from the tree line, though Jaime had no idea where it would be located. It stood to reason, for the Freys and his cousin had the hardest of times of finding the bandits. He was in full view of every man in the camp, so he could not escape even if he had two hands.</p><p>The sun had begun its descent in the west, but it would not kiss the horizon until an hour later, so he supposed that he was unconscious for several hours at the very least.</p><p>He searched the faces of his captors. Jaime knew Thoros of Myr, and he thought he recognized several guardsmen that were part of Ned Stark's entourage when the Hand traveled south. He knew their faces from memory, but not their names. One among their number looked suspiciously like Robert if the late king were still in his teenage years. Brienne and Podrick were not here.</p><p>"<em>Did they betray me?" </em>he wondered, though from Brienne's last warning, she did not willingly. It was clear that Sansa Stark was only a ruse, and he had fallen for the most simplest of tricks.</p><p>"<em>I died to my honour </em>," he thought,"<em>How cruel is the game that the gods play, that the Kingslayer would die the same as Eddard Stark?" </em>Beric Dondarrion was not here, though Jaime judged that the outlaw lord would join them soon.</p><p>"The Kingslayer's awake," a man in a yellow cloak declared,"Gendry, fetch her ladyship." The boy who looked like Robert Baratheon sped away, behind the trunk where Jaime sat so that he could not see his passage.</p><p>"<em>Her ladyship </em>," he thought,"<em>It is not Lord Beric's band, but the band of the woman they call Stoneheart</em>." He did not know whether to be worried with this revelation.</p><p>"<em>Is she more stone or heart? </em>" he wondered,"<em>The White Fawn had been a beauty to rival Cersei, but was the cruelest and most dangerous of the Kingswood Brotherhood second to only the Smiling Knight himself</em>."He wondered whether this is the same woman, taking to banditry again in an age of chaos. They had never caught her, and none could confirm that any of the bodies were hers. Jaime wondered if she would know him. By name, most certainly, but Jaime had only been a boy when Kingsguard cleared the Kingswood of its vermin, and he had only fought under Crakehall's banner. He saw her once, when Merrett Frey was captured, but she would not remember the face of a common golden-haired squire.</p><p>He soon heard a flurry of steps behind him, and in a moment a group of armed men led by a cloaked figure entered his vision. When he saw the form of the hooded leader, he laughed.</p><p><em>The Freys were more incompetent than I imagined </em>,"Jaime thought, amusingly,"<em>How difficult is it to kill the mother once you've already slain her strong son</em>." He felt strangely relieved. Catelyn Stark, at the very least, was not the kind of bandit that he feared. He saw Brienne and Podrick among the group before him, coupled with another knight who Jaime did not know the name. They were all bound, and three blue-cloaked men urged them forward with shouts and kicks. The men assembled before him gradually made ceremony for their leader, forming a semicircle around the tree in which their prisoner was bound.</p><p>Lady Catelyn joined them, and she took the place directly in front of Jaime's vision.</p><p>When she raised her hood, however, Jaime's blood ran cold. Her hair was not the deep Tully red that he saw the last time Lady Catelyn had spoken to him. The rough features that she had imprinted upon her otherwise beautiful face when she questioned Jaime at swordpoint were now permanently etched into her skin. Deep red scars ran across both cheeks. Her hair was the grey and white of the dead. Her face and eyes were the same as well.</p><p>"<em>This is not Catelyn Stark</em>," he realized,"<em>I should have known. Lady Stark would never have earned a name such as Stoneheart. This is her corpse, and she will hold me to my broken oath</em>." He knew now that he would die here this day, and he made peace with it.</p><p>But Lady Stoneheart did not address him first. She instead turned to the side, and croaked something unintelligible.</p><p>Thoros of Myr translated for her,"Bring the Kingslayer's whore."</p><p>Brienne was led through the throng of men and made to kneel before Stoneheart's feet. The woman croaked something again, but this time Thoros did not translate. He instead glanced at his mistress, and spoke in objection,"She brought us what you asked of her."</p><p>The croak came again, this time more harshly. A northmen in a fur cloak was the one to speak her will,"She is still a lion's man. For her service, I will spare the life of her squire and her knight, and I shall not give her the noose, but her life is forfeit."</p><p>The yellow-cloaked man yanked Brienne's head back by her hair, and drew a red smile across her throat.</p><p>Strangely, Jaime felt nothing in the first moments. When the shock passed, grief and anger washed over his mind, blinding his judgement and tinting his vision red.</p><p>"Face me, whore," he shouted,"or do you not dare?" He demanded it so that all the camp could hear. Curses and insults greeted his outburst, but he dismissed them all. His mind was only on Lady Stoneheart, and the unjust justice that she had given.</p><p>"<em>I would kill her </em>," he thought," <em>if they dared to give me my sword </em>."</p><p>Lady Stoneheart approached him, and her men followed. When she was as close so as that Jaime would need to rear his head to meet her eyes, she spoke again.</p><p>"Kingslayer," Thoros translated,"You swore an oath to protect and send me my daughters. Where are they? I name you an oathbreaker. How do you plead?"</p><p>Jaime glared at her. He knew that he was guilty of the charge, but he would spite this farce of a trial. They had no right to give justice.</p><p>"I plead innocent," he spat,"In the sights of gods and men, I demand trial by combat."</p><p>"<em>And if the Warrior lends me strength </em>," he thought," <em>and I should win, I would take command of my host and hunt every man here to the ends of the earth. Even if I shall fall, so be it </em>."</p><p>Stoneheart's face cracked, and her pale red lips curled to form a smile," Then I shall choose my champion."</p><p>They gave Jaime his sword, sheathed in his scabbard. Stoneheart was said to have chosen her champion, but he had not appeared upon the field. He gazed among the Brotherhood, wondering which of them he would need to kill.</p><p>Then, he felt it. Silence. He heard it as well. The same silence before the Whispering Wood. The same silence that had grasped the throne room even amidst the crackles of the flame and the cackles of a madman. The memories, old and new, blurred the light of the Brotherhood's torches, and the dark forest drew his turning gaze.</p><p>A lone wolf bounded from the trees into the clearing. Its fur was a dark grey, and its yellow eyes were like lamps in the fading light of the evening, two more omens of the gods that Jaime will defy one last time.</p><p>"<em>For you, Brienne </em>," he thought,"<em>For you. Vengeance and Justice. When has a lion feared a wolf? Lady Stark is a true woman of her house after all. Family, duty, honour. She has none of the last, and little of the second. It seems that she embodies her words well. A wolf would choose its kin</em>."</p><p>The wolf howled, and a dozen echoed its cry.</p><p>Jaime clumsily grasped the scabbard with his golden hand, and drew his sword.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. THE FLOWER OF THE STORM</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was a common Ghiscari saying that he had heard the youngsters of the queen's host jape amusingly with each other. You could never trust a Yunkish in battle, but you could always trust in a siege. The masters of that slaver city were masters of the cushion, and time has proven that they were novices at the sword.</p><p>"<em>Much like the Tyrells of Highgarden, or the Gardeners before them</em>,"he thought. The Stormlands had been fortunate that the numbers of the Reach were made less by their skill at steel. Harvest Hall sat upon the Dornish Marches, and the ancient Selmys were one of the first houses to feel the wrath of the Reach should war arise.</p><p>"<em>If I had chosen to lord my lands after my father</em>," he pondered,"<em>and not accepted the king's offer, I may have fought them yet again, as a bannerman to Stannis. I may have won glory all the same without making unsullied my honour. But I would never have met the princes, nor judge the fate of the realm. I would never see a woman worthy of the throne to be seated on it</em>."</p><p>The sigil of House Selmy was three stalks of yellow wheat, yet the men of House Selmy learned to reap roses before they learned to harvest their own yield.</p><p>"<em>If I were a lord, and not bound to the vows of the white cloak, could I have had her?"</em> his mind broke free to wonder for the first time in years. Her face was pale as moonlight, her hair black as a raven's, dazzling majestically as she laughed with her maids in that feast. It was the time when Barristan's hair was still spun gold. Ashara Dayne was only her likeness, her beauty only to hers as Barristan's sword was to the warriors. But even when he was old and not caring of such matters, when he had closed his eyes to all else besides duty, Ashara Dayne had drawn his sight as a locust to a shill of wheat, even if her beauty was only a fraction of his maid. He had hid her face away for far too long. Barristan had stubbornly refused to admit it all these years, that he had made the wrong choice. He chose his white cloak, and he could not stray from the oath that he swore to abide from the beginning of his new life until its end. His love was his bane. But he could not go then, no more than he could have deserted his cloak when he was young. Not when those dreadful wings came to bear black tidings. They could have spent their last days together. but Barristan had duty then. Duty to his Prince, duty on the bloodstained waters, and he chose not to go. He chose not to see her, not even that one last time. Her face lingered still in his memory, plaguing him with a shimmering beauty as fair as sunlight dazzling upon summer grass. He could not face her gaze in his dreams, so he hid it under another face. A face that was of similar beauty. A face that he could never have, but desired, so he would not think of the brighter star that he had grasped but forsaken. The guise that Barristan held for seventeen years will soon shatter. He will see his love again.</p><p>It was one month after his fifteenth nameday. His brother had styled him then the Golden Man, as he was Lord Lyonel's firstborn heir. His sword was renowned in Harvest Hall even before Ser Duncan gave him his honour. Every man knew of the promising knight that was dubbed "the Bold" by the Prince of Dragonflies. Every maid wished herself to bed this noble heir, but his eyes were drawn to only one.</p><p>Old Lord Manfred, his mentor, had smiled, seeing his squire's eyes flit over, and told him,"Win love while you still can, Barristan. You may win many glories with a sword, but you will soon find that your hairs turn grey, even if you feel that your strength and lust have not. Enjoy your summer while summer knights can, for when winter comes and your feathers freeze, you will be glad of the fire that will keep you warm. Winter comes for us swans as it does all men, no matter if they wear, scales, or skin. I waited too long, and autumn took me before I thought to care for the feathers of my own. A swan might be the most graceful of creatures, but even their feathers may be stained without care. Go on, and ask her. You've already proven yourself worthy in her father's eyes. Don't do anything rash, and don't wish for her in your bed this very night. Be kind to her, and offer gracious words that are truthful. She already has eyes for you, but she does not know how this "Golden Man" may be inside. Prove to her that you are the valiant knight, slowly and softly, and you will win your love. Do your worst."</p><p>His brother had japed as well,"If you would not take her, Barry, then I will be glad to receive your leavings."</p><p>"<em>If I had not the love for battle and honour, and was wise enough to take after my father</em>," he mused softly, the wind dry on his tongue,"<em>perhaps I could have made true the love that we gave each other</em>." He had never seen her again since that day he bade her farewell at King's Landing, for the Stepstones had given him a king to serve and an oath to hold. He had only the enamelled steel of his guard, and the embrace of his cold white cloak to bear him through his winter. He had only duty, and a command to take. It tasted as dry as the dust of Meereen.</p><p>In another life, Lord Barristan Selmy would have drawn his sword to face a similar host, though their banners would be green instead of gold. He saw the slaver banners, as fearsome and many as the Reach's host would have been had he accepted Harvest Hall.</p><p>He hoped that the ancient Ghiscari saying proved true, and that the Yunkish would fall as easily as the foes reaped by the Stormlander lords of old. But he knew that in the end, songs were tales, and true blood was true blood.</p><p>The sun glinted off the shields of his host, as it had reached its zenith. Yellow light cast out, which saw his men burn as golden as their foe. He felt soft crutches as his horse's hooves trod the sand, and heard the bells of his mount ring merrily. Barristan's long unkempt hair flew outwards beneath his helm, and for a moment, in the gleam of the sun, he thought it was golden again.</p><p>He thought of the ride upon the Stepstones, where both his glory and his doom may have awaited. The ride that sealed his greatness, and the ride would seal his death, all amongst the soft crunches of hooves on sand.</p><p>"<em>There will be many songs sung of this day, no matter the victor</em>," he thought,"<em>but I will never hear them</em>." He gazed at his squires,"<em>They perhaps, will win glory as I once did upon these the same speckled slaughterhouse, and have a thousand bards brighten their futures with a thousand songs. Their time is still young, and can do so much else, and not make the same blunders that this old man made. When they are old greybeards, they may not ride to death but savor their last moments in the arms of their grandchildren</em>."</p><p>"<em>What songs will they sing</em>,"he wondered," <em>of the old knight on his last ride? Or shall they think of me as the old fool who did not realize that he was too old for his pride?"</em></p><p>Barristan remembered that first song that he had heard sung of him, when he had only returned from the Stepstones to a joyous city cheering the slayer of Maelys the Monstrous.</p><p>"<em>They sang of many men that night in the tavern</em>," he thought,"<em>Of Duncan the Tall. Of the White Bull. Of the winged twins of Skyreach that were the light of the Kingsguard before they died. But the man that they cheered the loudest was their newest hero. Their youngest hero. The newest Kingsguard knight, who was known by all as Barristan the Bold.</em>"</p><p>"<em>A man who rose was born from shadows</em>," it began,"<em>no honour to his name</em>." He had won too much honour, laid too much glory to his name. For this ride, he could pretend to be that knight again, and slay foes as a man with no monikers to his name, and be a young knight one last time. To be that knight that knew nothing, whose honour was not tarnished with duty, who saw all that is lawful and good as what he had fought for.</p><p>"<em>To serve the queen</em>," he thought,"<em>Barristan the Bold failed his king, but Barristan the Old will not fail his sister</em>."</p><p>"My lord Hand," he heard Tumco Lho say,"Shall we sound the charge?"</p><p>Barristan watched the field below, where the Yunkish legions marched to array upon the sand. Grey Worm's Unsullied march opposite to them, their spears a forest in their shield wall, descending the string of hills to meet their foes. The Stormcrows held their flanks, adhering to their new command. The Widower had been made their new lord, much to his displeasure. Far in the east, the brown attire of the freedmen companies clashed humbly with the golden sand. They were to shield their flank against the forces of New Ghis that were sure to aid their ally. They would never be able to hold them, but they could delay them until such time as they could crush the southern Yunkish host.</p><p>Far on a taller hill, the dragon banner was raised high, for all within a mile to see. Barristan and his select company formed their reserve horse, waiting upon Valaena's Hill.</p><p>"No," he responded,"The forces must clash before we commit our reserve."</p><p>He still remembered the mocking voice of the envoy,"Know that for every master you slay in dishonour, two of your own will die. Every drop of golden blood is worth two of you common men. We are men of honour, but we are men of justice as well."</p><p>The heads of Jhogo and Daario Naharis were laid richly on silver plates, burnished in mocking bronze glitter.</p><p>The former he had mourned, for he was loyal to the queen, and had been her bloodrider.</p><p>"<em>He would have preferred to die with Arakh in hand</em>," he had thought,"<em>defending his queen. His death is on my hands, for I am the Queen's Hand. I shall wash the blood in her name, fulfilling Jhogo's last duty</em>."</p><p>He knew little of Dothraki tradition, but he had said a silent prayer to the Stranger to guide his fallen spirit to whatever lands the warrior desired.</p><p>But for the latter dead, he felt no tears, and breathed a sigh of relief. His blue beard had seemed to curl his mouth into a permanent sneer, as if to slyly say,"<em>Ser Grandfather. You will join us soon, will you not, on this fine silver?"</em></p><p>It looked grotesque, but he was glad that it would never smile upon the queen again.</p><p>"<em>This poison is gone</em>,"he had thought,"<em>But how soon will another take its place?"</em> The queen was still half a maiden, and he did not know how to shield her from her desires. For that, he as a Kingsguard had failed all his life, for every prince and king he served.</p><p>"<em>If I had stopped only one</em>," he had thought,"<em>the Targaryens would still rule Westeros,and we need not dance with this pit of vipers in Meereen, but would have looked upon her brother on the Iron Throne, a rightful, valiant, and just man. The best man that I knew, and the best man that I served. The queen would have been laughing and dallying with her fellow maidens in the Red Keep, while the king and I looked from above, savoring the peace of the dragons. She would have needed not to play this game of thrones, in a game that I could not guide her, and her love would be to the man that King Rhaegar would have deemed suitable</em>."</p><p>Barristan remembered his faults all too well. It was forty years ago, when he was still the youngest of the Kingsguard knights. Prince Aerys, at the time still his father's son, had wished to visit his friend Lord Steffon Baratheon in Storm's End, and the king chose the knight that was of an age with his grandson to be his escort. He, as the Kingsguard's newest member, had only carried out his duty before with another knight in companionship. He had only guarded the queen and the princesses, not trusted yet with the princes and the king. This was his first assignment alone, and he had been eager to accept it.</p><p>Those were the times when the Kingsguard were still men of honour, when the fields of white were not yet sowed with the rotten seeds of men like Boros Blount, Meryn Trant, and Jaime Lannister.</p><p>The prince was young and strong then, and Barristan had first thought of the first prince he shielded when he first saw Rhaegar glinting in all his glory. He saw young Prince Aerys in Rhaegar, and the queen as well. If a man had spread the word of Prince Aerys's future, the young rash knight would have seized him on the spot and had him tried for speaking treason.</p><p>The prince was prideful and arrogant, of course, as befitting all young dragons, but he was kind and soft-spoken as well. They had forsaken their royal entourage frequently, as the prince wished to see the true worries of his people. He wanted to see them without the people catering to the mummer's act that greeted a dragon. Barristan had been the only man to accompany him, for he could not forsake his duty, and the prince wished himself a companion.</p><p>He was ambitious, and determined to make his reign surpass all his ancestors. The Prince of Dragonflies gave away his crown, and his father had become king. Prince Aerys was his father's only son. He wanted to forge a peace, and many of his earliest designs were to satisfy what he learned of the common folk in his travels.</p><p>Barristan had been his greatest friend, the brother that the prince had said he never had, and the young Kingsguard swore to serve his path until the very end. It was he that was trusted enough to stand guard over Aerys's door at his wedding night, since the Prince would only listen to his words. He had to make certain that the prince would not be bold enough to challenge his father in a drunken stupor. Though Aerys had been displeased with his father's match, he was still a prince before a love-struck boy. But he was also a warrior before a prince, and only Barristan could restrain his arm. It had been his duty, then, to see that the marriage was performed smoothly.</p><p>Only his most trusted Kingsguard had known who the young prince truly loved. Every other white cloak was a king's man first and foremost. Only Barristan had been a prince's man before the king's.</p><p>"<em>And that has cost the realm dearly</em>," he thought,"<em>when I laid by my duty to the realm and the king for my brotherly love</em>."</p><p>It was only Barristan who was trusted as company to the prince on his nightly trysts. Aerys had met her at a tourney, and was smitten with the maiden at first sight. She had been one of their guests, as the lady-in-waiting to the would-be queen.</p><p>King Aerys never loved his sister, but he did his duty with all due enthusiasm. Barristan thought that he must have forced himself to see his true love in his true bride, to see golden hair in silver.</p><p>It had been Barristan's greatest fault, though it was never his duty to act in the king's matters. The Kingsguard act only by their orders, and Barristan no less. He was never to judge the king, for that was not his duty. He was bid to never act, and he never did. The Kingsguard never choose. They only serve. Jaime Lannister chose, and he was no true white cloak. Barristan would hide his mutterings behind his mask of duty, and made certain the seeds remained only seeds.</p><p>He remembered the second verse of that song,"<em>In a dance that was spun of black drake and red, and a choice that they told to this day</em>."</p><p>Barristan remembered his great-grandfather Lord Arstan Selmy, the Locust's Bane, who chose the black, and fell with the first Blackfyre at the Redgrass Field. He served the Daemon that bore the Conqueror's blade, but that king had not the dragonflame to make the second Field of Fire his victory. Their flames had scorched the fields, and the grasses of Westeros had turned red again. When dragons dance, it is the world that burns. His grandfather chose the same in the third dance of black and red, and he fell amidst a field of gold at Crackclaw Point, disguised as a common sellsword to aid the Blackfyre cause. His squire, who had been lucky enough to be captured and ransomed by a knight of seven pink roses, returned to Harvest Hall in disgrace. He was an old man at Barristan's time, but still told wondrous tales of how his lord had drunk with Bittersteel and King Haegon. Bittersteel was an old sour man, but he clearly had the respect of every sword in the Golden Company. Haegon may be the king in name, but Aegor Rivers was the king in truth. The Great Bastard had exiled himself beyond the sea, making almost every man in Westeros forget his name, to win his brother's son his rightful throne. He had groomed his brother's son across the sea, until he saw a king worthy to rule, and led the Blackfyres to Westeros again at the head of the Golden Company. "The young king," he had said,"was wise beyond his years, trained in every art that a king should be. He was fair and handsome, but was also just and inspired easy loyalty."</p><p>Barristan had chosen the red, and his father abided by the wish of his son. He chose red yet again, for the queen across the water over all the golden stags and the grey wolf.</p><p>"<em>I chose to stand by the men that I saw fit to rule the realm</em>," Barristan thought,"<em>May the Crone see that my choice is not wrong again</em>."</p><p>He saw afar the great black sails of the krakens, and he thought it ironic that the pirates were their ally. The men of the western coasts learned to shield themselves from the krakens that rise from the sea, but the Stormlanders learn as well. It was not Greyjoys that were commonplace by the Narrow Sea, but the pirate kings of the Stepstones and the Free Cities. Some raid bearing the banners of none, while others reave coasts flying proudly the banners of Pentos or Lys. It is not uncommon that an Ironborn galley under the watchful whip of the king's peace, would disguise themselves as a Stepstone pirate and reave the Stormlander coasts. They could not raid the west, for the crown knew that only Ironborn would sail there. One can change, however, as ship's banners, and can don another set of mail, but it is the same that fights underneath the guise. Barristan had fought Ironborn himself in the Greyjoy Rebellion, and knew that their style was unique. Sailors from every generation would have had to answer the call from the crown at least once in their life to put down an ironman uprising. Though if a Stormlander village was raided by a pirate galley that was in truth a ship of the Ironborn, none could be done even if the lords knew. The crown would not risk another war for the sake of one village, and Greyjoys were loath to admit responsibility.</p><p>"<em>Pirate or Raider</em>," he thought,"<em>They are foes of the Yunkish. Foes of the queen's enemies, who I am bid to destroy. The Greyjoys swore to the Targaryens, after all. Let them come to aid our plight.</em>"</p><p>Though Barristan thought again on the mighty galleys that sailed the waters of the Bay,"<em>Why would the Greyjoys aid the queen in Slaver's Bay? They were no close friend of the dragons, though they swore to be their vassals. Lord Quellon swore to the stag's banner. Lord Balon made himself king, I heard, and he has no love for the dragon</em>."</p><p>"<em>Perhaps</em>,"he thought in curiosity,"<em>A sailor's rumor is not to be trusted, and the tidings from Westeros are not as they seem. These are not Lord Balon's banners, but his son's that had taken his place. Robb Stark may have won the war, and sends Theon Greyjoy as an emissary to bring the dragon queen home. If he means to take the Iron Throne, he would need a dragon to cement his claim</em>." If it is so, then a bloody conquest could be averted. He had heard the Young Wolf was much like his father, and would make much worthier consort for the queen than the likes of Daario Naharis. If the queen would grow to love him, then all is for the better. If she would love duty, then the Seven Kingdoms shall bleed no more.</p><p>It had meant that the boy Joffrey had seen justice, and Lord Tywin overthrown.</p><p>"<em>Robb Stark would have cause to send men to the dragon queen. He is only one of the five kings to have such an aim. He would have cause to send his vassal Theon Greyjoy with the ships of the Ironborn to win the wolf king's queen</em>."</p><p>"<em>We could leave this folly behind</em>," Barristan thought,"<em>for the queen should not refuse such an earnest invitation that would offer the Iron Throne on a silver platter</em>." He did not think that the queen would love her throne of thorns in Meereen more than she would love her own.</p><p>If the ships had come a month ago, perhaps disaster could have been averted, and battle would not have been joined. The hour is too late now, for steel was already drawn, and the duel begins.</p><p>"<em>This sally cannot fail</em>," he thought,"<em>The Yunkish must be defeated, and the armies of the slavers stayed another day</em>." The Greyjoy fleet still saw no sign of victory over the Qartheen, and only if the field was won could they lend aid. If the queen's battle is won, then the queen's war is as well. Barristan would have to win it for his queen. They could not withdraw into the city. If they did, then the ships would be denied aid, and Robb Stark is not like to send another fleet if heard that his friend was sunk beneath the seas.</p><p>He remembered the third verse,"<em>And doom was laid on his own hand, a dragon's war upon the sands</em>."</p><p>The Unsullied marched in lockstep, their shields raised high to shade them from the sun. Winter may be coming in Westeros, but in Meereen it was the land of ever heat. He wondered if ice had ever claimed the Skahazadan, for it would have been preferable if he could have sallied north instead of south. It was not the Yunkish that formed the encirclement in the north and the east, but their allies. The New Ghiscari camps to the east held themselves on high hills, and it would be unwise to assail them. Their kin to the north, however, were on much the same beach as Meereen proper. The New Ghiscari were the weaker link in the slaver alliance, so he would have preferred to assail them first before attacking the mightier strength of the Yunkish south. If the river could be crossed, then Barristan would have been able to dismember the alliance link by link, from the weak to the strong. When he assailed the north, his men could easily shield his flank, and he would have more time to crush his main enemy. The greatest fruit he could hope to pluck in the south were to only injure the Yunkish, all the while with their flank a step from doom.</p><p>But that was a fool's hope, for the scorching heat still burned as fierce as the brightest summer in Westeros. Barristan could afford the luxury of taking his armour off, for he was far from the Yunkish bows, but he wore it for his men may be needed at a moment's notice. The heat often slay as fiercely as steel could in a long day at battle, but Barristan had braved worse times.</p><p>"<em>In my youth, though</em>," he thought,"<em>when I trained in the dense and stifling grasp of the Stormland castle, under the watchful eye of Lord Manfred. I had lost that life when I became a Kingsguard. An old knight's strength is not that of a young man's, no matter his will</em>."</p><p>The Unsullied did not have his luxury, though they only wore leather. Their shields served as much a barrier to the sun as it was to protect themselves from the steel tipped arrows that could easily pierce their light mail.</p><p>"Water," he demanded," feeling the thirst stiffen his throat by the long day on his mount. It would not do to fall of heat before Barristan met the enemy. He had already emptied his last skin. Tumco Lho fumbled within the satchel that he brought, and drew a waterskin outwards.</p><p>"Lord Hand," he said as he handed Barristan the water.</p><p>"You have my thanks," Barristan said, as he emptied a short swig of water onto his parched tongue. It healed the raw skin inside, and left a measure of coolness and comfort that was sure to be gone within minutes of the desert wind. He noted that his lips had grown cracked, and dry slabs were peeling at the edges.</p><p>"<em>I have been too long in Meereen</em>," he thought,"<em>It is no place for Westerosi, particularly an old one</em>." He closed his skin, it still holding much of its content, and fastened it on his saddle by his side.</p><p>One of the first lessons a knight learns in his youth is how to eat and drink in a battle. The shortest last for hours, and the longest days. One should never consume too much at one time, for they needed to preserve their strength throughout the entire course. Many knights put on a belly so they would not need the necessity of constant nourishment, and could fight all the while longer.</p><p>"<em>They never put that in songs</em>," Barristan thought,"<em>Lords and maidens never want to hear of the fat and ugly, true knights that were the bane of their dreams. Knights like Duncan the Tall were rare, to fulfill both the image and heart of what men commonly saw as the perfect man. There were men like Jaime Lannister, dampered in golden armour and golden hair, looking the statues of the Warrior come to life, when at heart his blade was as rotten as the cruelest villain</em>." There were always men like the Kingslayer, knowing nothing of honour and duty, turning his cloak and his sword at the slightest whim. Those that forsook old loyalty as soon as they learned of the new, those that never knew to shield their honour until they fall, for that is what their oath bids.</p><p>The songs had made Barristan himself more a warrior than he truthfully was. He was never the tallest, nor the strongest, perhaps not even the most skilled in the blade if he were to judge himself again against the others of his time.</p><p>"<em>But I slew the right man</em>," Barristan thought,"<em>and the singers made me immortal</em>."</p><p>"<em>His helm was forged of crystal hewn</em>," he remembered in the next verse of the song,"H<em>is pale cloak shimmered like the moon, and light was cast from his white sword, his white steed bore the silver lord</em>."</p><p>Tumco Lho had opened his own skin and eagerly began to drink his fill. Barristan glanced at his squire, thinking," He may very well prove himself this day, and not fall like so many others will. He will slay men that the singers will call monsters, and he will ride steeds that they will name the heaven's chariots. The men of the queen's kingdom will forget that he was still half a boy at the time, as they have forgotten that about me. They may say the name Tumco the Strong in the same breath that they chant Barristan the Bold."</p><p>He could only remember moments of his faded past, as his boyhood grew more and more distant. In three years, perhaps, he would forget, if he lived to that day.</p><p>"<em>But let Ser Duncan's spirit flow through me one last time</em>," he thought,"<em>Let me be a true knight as I die, shielding the dragons that he shielded to his last breath</em>." He had only known Ser Duncan the Tall for a short time, but the truest knight makes his mark on every man he meets. The honour of the white cloaks lived through Barristan, and it is not in him that they will die.</p><p>Grey Worm's host suffered volley after volley of arrows, but their phalanx held. Their shield wall braced most of the storm, and only in select places where the arrows pierced the crevices in their line did any of the Unsullied fall. Some formations broke entirely in the forefront, but another took their place, and they continued to advance across the sands. If it were the Mother's Men, or any of the other freedmen companies, they would have broken already under the rain of the arrowstorm.</p><p>The Unsullied approached the Yunkish legions. They were a stark contrast. The Yunkish wore dyes and colours of al kings, from golden silks to crimson stains. Most of them were slave legions, and they laid bound together in lines of chains. Riders that were sure to be their captains rode from end to end of each legion, rallying their men. They bore many banners in their midst. A ship of flame. A giant man slaying a scorpion. A circlet of griffin and dragon, each biting the other's tail. The emblems may bore many colours but they flew solely on fields of gold. The queen's soldiers wore only monotonous grey garb, blocks of iron with slits of darkness where the spears of death stuck outwards. A banner-carrier would have broken their shield walls, so the legions of the queen bore no dragon. The hosts seemed to slow as they approached each other. The arrostorm had halted, for the Yunkish wished not to harm their own men. Spear soon met spear, and the shields clashed. The sands will soon find which legion was greater. The line of battle stretched for a mile,from the foaming waters of Slaver's Bay to the half-green plains of Angerou's Field. From his perch of the heights of Valaena's Hill, he saw only gold and grey thin.</p><p>The Yunkish outnumbered the Unsullied, and their line spread further outwards. The Stormcrows did their duty, and the legions that were to meet the Unsullied flank were soon met with the thundering charge of the sellswords. They soon forgot that they were bound together in chains, and collapsed in great heaps, forming little resistance to the thundering charge. The Stormcrows remembered their orders, and only cut down one man from every fleeing legion. When they were tangled in a mass of bodies, their archers shot them down while they could not form a shield wall. The slaver flank was routed, and theirs was temporarily secured.</p><p>"<em>The Widower may have won his life back</em>," Barristan thought,"<em>If he did not earn his worth in battle, the men would have needed to know that slaying a foe dishonourably is punishable, even for a captain of men</em>."</p><p>But he soon saw the slaver horse rise from the mists of the sandstorm, and the Stormcrows rode to greet them. They clashed in a flurry of banners and chaos. A dust storm began to rise on their battleground, and the sun's heat boiled all the more.</p><p>He gazed at the fields below, knowing that his time had come, and his hand must be shown.</p><p>"<em>This is the time when my men may win the day</em>," he thought,"<em>or lose</em> ." As he observed the field, unease crept into his throat The sellsword companies formed most of the slaver horse. He saw the red cat of the Company that bore it on their banners, as vibrant as their captain's beard. He likewise saw the long-tipped lance of Gylo Rhegan's band. He saw a dozen more sigils, but two were missing.</p><p>"<em>Where are the Second Sons? "</em> he wondered,"<em> Where are the Windblown? </em> They were sure to be held in the slaver reserve, so his last contingency will have to be realized.</p><p>He smiled bitterly, for he would be glad to be worthy of meeting the Kingsguard of old.</p><p>He could not dwell on such matters, for the time of his strike had come.</p><p>"Tumco Lho," he ordered, and the squire turned his head,"You shall bear the queen's banner. Make certain that it shall never fall unless you fall with it. Raise it high so that all may see her glory."</p><p>The squire received the banner,"Yes Lord Hand."</p><p>"Red Lamb," he called, and the other squire made to ride at Barristan's side,"Red Lamb. When our time comes, sound the horn of advance. It will now that we sound the charge."</p><p>His squire smiled,"Yes, Lord Hand, I shall."</p><p>Barristan nodded, ruing the hour the squire's lust would turn into fear, and he may run from the field like many others.</p><p>"<em>I should not have kept them in the reserve at the dawn</em>," he thought,"<em>I should have given them a taste of battle, and let them judge whether its flavour suits them. When blood and pus stain's one's mail. When you smell nothing but the rotten stench of the dead and dying. You forget everything about suns and smiles. You forget everything of song and glory. You forget everything of honour and duty. All you know is the man swinging his sword at you, and you swing your sword back to live. All you know is that you must kill another man, hoping that it will be your last and the battle will soon end.</em>"</p><p>Larraq brought him his lance, and he gripped the steel firmly.</p><p>He turned from his squires and looked upon his own men. They were what he could conjure to supplant his numbers, and all men that could ride a horse well formed their ranks. They had only a short time in training, but he could trust them more than the hearts of the sellswords. They were freedmen, and swore themselves to the Breaker of Shackles. The Queen's Men were a thousand strong, and as green as summer grass. They could not hold a line without breaking, but they were loyal men that looked to the queen as their mother.</p><p>"<em>Only the best steel can make  an anvil</em>," Barristan thought,"<em>but even the most rusted iron could make a hammer</em>." These men could not be used as the bait that the Unsullied and Stormcrows would, for they would break almost instantly in the face of true blood. They were interlaced with Rakharo's Dothraki, though their leader Barristan had dispatched away to find the queen. All knew how to ride, and even the most craven squire may feel brave in a mounted charge with his comrades beside him.</p><p>"<em>These are the queen's hope</em>," he thought,"<em>for they are tasked with the greatest duty. They will win this day</em>."</p><p>Din could be heard rising from the northeast, and messengers had come, reporting of the fight that began. The New Ghiscari had come to aid their allies, and the Mother's Men with the other freedmen companies were beginning to give them battle. He had told the messengers what he himself doubted, voicing with certainty that all they needed to do was hold, and aid would soon arrive if they would buy Barristan more time.</p><p>They would certainly fall to the strength of the eastern slavers, but their sacrifice would win Barrstan's men the seconds needed to crush the Yunkish. They must take this chance now, for every second wasted was dearly paid by the blood of the queen's soldiers.</p><p>"<em>We must do our duty as well</em>," he thought.</p><p>He spurred forward, and turned to meet the eyes of his men.</p><p>"Men,"he cried, and the eyes of every rider were centred on him. They all turned to face the white-cloaked knight who burned with one last fire. Larraq shouted in translation, for he had the deepest voice of his squires.</p><p>"I asked you once to fight this dawn," he shouted,"and make the fires the birth of her grace's kingdom. You have fought well. I cannot ask any more of your duty. I bid no man to follow me now against his will. Many of you have seen the corpses of your comrades. Many of you have seen the might of the foe. Many of you will still break and run even when you have tasted battle only this morning, and you may still run even when we are on the brink of victory. The battle that I ask you to claim is more deadly than all the last tastes of blood you may have thought the greatest pain. This is the fight that would claim the queen's kingdom, the fight that will decide who stands victor upon the sands this day, and all the days after. The foe will fight with all their strength, for they know as we do, that whoever shall emerge victorious shall win the war. I would not bid you to fight, for even I know fear in the thought of bloodying my sword again. But if I shall need to face the alone, I shall do so gladly, for I know that even if I live this day and her grace's kingdom is in ruins, I shall regret to have never fallen for her on the battlefield, shielding her honour. I ask you to fight, to protect the free of the queen's realm. I ask you to fight, so that tales of your valor and honour may be told amongst the hearths of your children and your children's children, telling of the deeds of their fathers in the greatest war of righteousness. I ask you to fight, so that the Breaker of Shackles may rule and see her kingdom in peace. Our foes will not see true victory, for their soldiers are bid by chains, but I will only ask that you should stand at your own will. Under the might of the dragon's wings, I ask you to stand, not as the dragon's slaves, but as the dragon's men."</p><p>His and Larraq's voices echoed in unison, until a ragged cheer broke out amidst the men."Zaldrīko," they shouted,"<em>Zaldrīko,Zaldrīko</em>."</p><p>"<em>Dragon</em>," Barristan thought, even though he knew little of Meereenese Valyrian,"<em>Dragon. Dragon. Dragon</em>."</p><p>The chant spread like green fire, and soon all his host were cheering with the sound of thunder,"<em>Dragon, Dragon, Dragon</em>." They raised their lances to glint in the sun, and Rhaegal soared over their blades. The chant only grew louder. Tumco Lho raised their dragon banner, and the red three-headed wyrm swayed majestically as its black fabric rippled in concordance with its emerald likeness by the strong western wind.</p><p>"<em>The Winds of Westeros</em>,"he thought,"<em>T</em><em>he winds of all the knights of old, come to bless this old knight's last ride</em>."</p><p>Red Lamb sounded their horn, and under the screech of the emerald dragon above, they rode to war.</p><p>"<em>And swift was his hooves, mighty his host,</em>"he thought of the next verse in that old song,"<em>that painted the fields with heaven's stroke</em>." Barristan did not know if it were pure chance or the beast's will, but the dragon seemed to follow their ride.</p><p>"<em>I did not mean for this to be a heaven's stroke</em>," he prayed anxiously,"<em>and the gods need not have the beast divulge our intentions</em>." One would only need to look under the green wings, to spot the rising mound of dust that were the queen's horsemen.</p><p>Silver buckled as her fine hooves found crevices and pits. The slavers would surely see the man armoured all in white from helm to steed. They would know that it was the white knight Barristan the Bold, and he needed them to think so. Their trail would be revealed regardless, but the dragon had hastened the revelation, and earned their foes several moments to prepare.</p><p>"<em>If its fire could aid us</em> ,"Barristan thought,"<em>then I would mind it as our companion, but it saves its flame only to serve the queen who is</em> <em>afar</em>." Dust rose from Silver's hooves, and he found his vision blur with the sands and soil of their storm.</p><p>"<em>And in that storm</em>," he recalled from the most distant of memories,"<em>my silver flower</em>." Those were the last words his love had given him as he bade her farewell at King's Landing, embracing his duty as a white cloak after the Stepstones.</p><p>"<em>I shall see her again</em>," he smiled,"<em>I</em><em> shall see her again this day</em>."</p><p>But the kiss he felt here were not yet those of the red lips of his fairest maiden, but of the cruel winds of duty. He tasted that bitter taste again, and steeled his sword.</p><p>Afar upon the horizon, he saw the reserve of the slaver horse raise themselves in another storm. He looked to the side, where Banqo, his lieutenant, awaited his order.</p><p>"Go," he called, nodding while pointing his arm to the fields of death,"May the gods grant you victory."</p><p>Banqo spurred his steed to the side, and the banner-bearers that bore the heraldry of eight of the ten contingents followed, the horsemen assigned to them in their wake. Their banners were shorter than average, only tall enough so that their horse behind could see them. Eight hundred riders detached from the main force, and rode to greet their greatest duty.</p><p>Only two hundred followed Barristan and his squires, but they only needed to serve as a deterrent to the slaver horse until their own would rout the enemy infantry.</p><p>"<em>Warrior</em>," he called on penitently,"<em>Sharpen the foe's sight, and let them see the white knight. Let them think to slay the enemy lord</em>."</p><p>Every moment passed as honey dripping from its comb, and the heat of the sun grew all the greater.</p><p>He took a drink from the skin at his saddle, and raised his eyes to meet the foe's storm.</p><p>The storm did not turn, and rode forward towards Barristan, and he let out a breath. He glanced to the side. The battle by the bay had reached its apex. The cavalry of the Srowmcrows and slavers lay in heaps of discarded mounts, mail, and large pockets of fighting men on foot. The battle line between the Unsullied and slaver legions swayed back and forth, no man's spears gaining the favor of the sand at their feet.</p><p>"<em>They will soon wear the Unsullied down</em>," he thought,"<em>their numbers are too many</em>." His own horse lay a mile away now, to the sway of only the gods and Banqo. He turned to face the oncoming enemy storm.</p><p>The relief that he felt wore away by the glint of enemy steel that grew ever closer. He lowered his lance, and his men did the same. A cheer rose among his men, heightening Barristan's own heart as he neared their foe.</p><p>"Dragon," they cried, and he heard the deep young tones of his squires among them.</p><p>"<em>Dragon</em>,"Barristan shouted with all his might.</p><p>"<em>Of thundering charges, bards have told of heroes of old,</em>" the bard sang,"<em>But none now has ever mastered the glory of the Bold</em>." He could see the silken threads in the Yunkish yellow banners decorating their own lowered lances. He saw the broken sword of the turncloak Second Sons. He saw their eyes, glinting with the fury that rivaled his own.</p><p>A fleeting moment of silence passed, and he knew battle once more.</p><p>He broke his lance in the helm of the first rider he met, the soul that he had slain soaring backwards to claim two of his comrades. A lance was broken against his own shield, and he staggered in his saddle. His old bones did not fail him, and he was able to wrench himself back into his seat. Barristan let go of the broken shaft of his lance and drew his sword, bashing another Yunkish rider off his horse with his hilt. In the corner of his eye, he saw Red Lamb dropping his own broken lance embedded in the torso of a brown-cloaked man, drawing his own sword.</p><p>Barristan raised his blade in rally, hoping that his white cloak was not yet stained by too much red blood to make it indistinguishable. Only his foes answered, and two riders approached. One's blade glanced off Barristan's shield, while Barristan buried his own between the man's helm and breastplate. The other missed Barristan's armoured leg, and cut a streak in Silver's flank.</p><p>His horse collapsed, and Barristan loosed his feet from his stirrups just soon enough to not be crushed under the horse's weight. He rolled to a stop, emerging decked in sand and soil. His face streaked by dirt and newly spilled blood. In his white beard, he tasted and smelled a coppery scent. He spat it out.</p><p>A horse collided into his flank, throwing him to the ground again. As he raised his head, he saw a giant of a Yunkish man swing his warhammer to crush Barristan's skull. He rolled clumsily, tangling himself in the white cloak. He cut through the fabric with his blade, and rose, unheeding of the weight of his plate. The foe's hammer left a mark where Barristan had been, and he turned to find Barristan's blade in his throat. He fell as every other man, but his collapse raised another cloud of sand and blood.</p><p>He felt steel strike against his back plate, and he turned, swinging his broken shield towards the man's skull. The wood met bone with a resounding crack, and the man collapsed with a scream to the ground.</p><p>He suddenly found that he was in a sea of enemies. The nearest pocket of his own men that bore a dragon banner were several corpses away.</p><p>"<em>The roaring sun upon the sands shined great into the night</em>,"the bard's voice had awakened the battle again that night,"<em>To light the knight of greatest honour, and the monster of greatest fright</em>."</p><p>"<em>There were no monsters</em>," Barristan thought as he swung his longsword two-handed to fend foes from all sides. He cut one man's throat, red blood erupting from the wound.</p><p>"<em>Only men</em>."</p><p>He brought his blade into the chest of another.</p><p>"<em>Only men</em>."</p><p>The third foe that he fought was barely a man, his face young and green. His arm that clumsily grasped his sword hesitated to swing at Barristan. Bile erupted from his mouth, showering Barristan's face with its reeking stench. Barristan wiped his eyes with his glove, and buried his blade in the boy's chest.</p><p>"<em>Only men</em>."</p><p>His ears rang, but he could hear faintly the shouts of his men in the distance amidst the chaos of the sand-strewn field glinting in blood.</p><p>"Rally to the Hand," he heard men shout,"Rally to the Hand."</p><p>His sword was stained with the lifeblood of two other foes before he was swarmed by a dozen cloaks shielding him from the hostile blades. He fell to lean on his sword, the cuts in his legs taking their toll upon his strength. His head swam, and the tendons in his head stretched and tensed. Sweat ran in drivels, cold upon his skin, and the muscles in his arms and legs burned though he fought for only a short while.</p><p>"<em>I am too old</em>," he thought, as Larraq supported him. He breathed his exhaustion with ragged breaths. The Red Lamb was fighting amidst the throng of men, in a haggard line that was formed around him.</p><p>"<em>Where is Tumco Lho?"</em> Barristan observed desperately, until he found the squire's body on a hill of other corpses. A freedman whose name he did not know carried the queen's banner.</p><p>"<em>His death may not have been in vain</em>," he mourned,"<em>if the plan will succeed</em>."</p><p>He gazed westwards, over the field of blood to the beaches where the main line still held.</p><p>"<em>He turned from his blood to the lands he made bliss</em>," the final verse sang,"<em>To</em><em> a hero's warm cloak and a maiden's kiss</em>." </p><p>He would never kiss the dragon queen when he had won her battles, nor will he kiss any other women in his life.</p><p>"<em>But there is one</em>," he thought,"<em>that I may have finally been worthy to win her hand. By the halls of the Father, when my soul is judged, wait for me</em> ."</p><p>As his eyes found the field, he saw not his men triumphant over their foes, but the great golden shields of the slaver legions looming over the corpses of hundreds of horses and men.</p><p>A sudden urge seized him, and he coughed, opening his eyes, to see blood upon the sands before his face.</p><p>"<em>It was the chains</em>," he thought,"<em>They served the slavers' purpose. None could run, so they must fight or die. And they held</em>."</p><p>Far in the north, Barristan saw the banners of the New Ghiscari rise, another golden beast that would catch the dragon in its jaws. They had defeated the freedmen companies, and the Unsullied flank was now open to their assault, and they had lost the battle.</p><p>Barristan had lost the queen's war. He had lost Meereen.</p><p>In the din of defeat, Barristan heard a horn screech.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. THE DOOMBRINGER</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Victarion seldom prayed to the Drowned God. There was no need for a captain of the Ironborn, who made his own end with steel and sails, to seek the blessing of His Lordship in his watery halls. Those were greenlander ways, begging for a god to grant them harvests, grant them protection, grant them a maiden's kiss.</p><p>"<em>The Ironborn take all three</em>," the captain thought,"<em>We need not grovel for anything, only offer our spoils as his rightful prize. That is how we earned his grace for centuries, and he has blessed our arms and wombs to bear more strength than the greenlanders would ever dream. That is how we will earn his grace for all the centuries to come, for the Drowned God is the god of victorious men</em>."</p><p>"<em>Euron forsook it</em>," he thought,"<em>The Crow's Eye knows only one god, whose hall is the silent deck of a crimson galley. Whose rites are an altar bearing tentacles of blood, his kingdom the wails of a thousand dead or dying, the last of the Ironborn, broken and wretched</em>."</p><p>"<em>My kingdom</em>," Victarion thought,"<em>is the bugles of a thousand ships returning from sea in victory. The drums and music as our bravest warriors dance the finger dance to the shimmering moonlight on goblets and laughter. The singing of smoking swords greeting the union of fire and sea that will drown the green lands. There is only one among the Ironborn whose blood still flowed true, and may yet lead our people to victory. Only one may lead our people to rule our rightful lands again. My blood is the only one that is still salt and iron, the only true protector of the Old Way</em>."</p><p>The blood of the kraken flowed through all Greyjoys, some less so than others. It flourished with Balon and his sons, Rodrik and Maron and Theon. His elder nephew, who had become the terror of Ironman's Bay during the war, and only when he fell did the greenlanders dare to turn their sights from their western coasts. Maron, who perished with honour in the defense of his home, young and strong, dying in the Ironborn way. Theon, who had been the first to breach the heart of the North since the days of Semmon Skintaker. Victarion himself had wished to press their advance, and seal their capture of the North with a joint assualt on the eastern cities. It was sure to crush the foolish notions of any northmen that dared to defy their rightful lords, but Balon never answered. His last nephew had fallen defending Winterfell to the last man, shielding what he had claimed righteously with the iron price.</p><p>"<em>Even twenty Ironborn was worth two thousand greenlanders</em>," he thought,"<em>Under a king that will make them great, Westeros shall be their thrall</em>."</p><p>Balon and his sons feast now in the Drowned God's Halls, in eternal glory and pleasure. They were waiting for Victarion to join them, when the captain himself would pass in future days. They waited, for another Greyjoy to be sealed in the tongues of history, to be shouted in the war cries of all Ironborn.</p><p>"<em>Not yet, though</em>," Victarion thought,"<em>Not yet. I will join them when my time is done. When the Ironborn have had their king who brought them into their golden age. When every ironman is a king on the shores of Westeros, I shall join my brothers in the Drowned Halls with grace</em>."</p><p>It is his destiny, for he was the only Greyjoy left. Aeron was no true Ironborn anymore, for he was half-mad in his undying faith. Once the salts have touched one's heart, his seed is cursed to be mundane forever. No ironman ever won their fame through servitude. The God has condemned him to act as a priest when his true soul died with his ship, forever forbidden the blessings bestowed on Ironborn warriors.</p><p>Victarion was the last of those who were true Ironborn warriors, the last kraken worthy to be king.</p><p>"<em>There is still Asha</em>," he remembered,"<em>There was also another who still bore black and gold, if not our blood. One that had thought to try her folly at a men's game. One that had thought to try a folly at the kingsmoot</em>." She may be a kraken now, but she would bear another's surcoat soon. It was Balon's greatest blunder to give her an axe, for war and conquest was not the way of women.</p><p>"<em>She sought beyond her station</em>," he thought,"<em>She would have given us meekingly to be the greenlander's slaves again should she have been chosen. Such was the weakness of women, which was why there was not ever an Ironborn queen. But her follies shall all not matter in the end. The true kraken will take charge of his realm of the sea and return, with his dragon queen at his side. He will sit both the Iron Throne and the Seastone Chair, and see the Crow's Eye beg his mercy. When he returns to the Isles with three dragons above his sails, when he makes himself king, Deepwood would be within his dominion regardless. </em>"</p><p>"<em>I shall find her a suitable husband</em>," Victarion mused,"<em>A kraken cannot wed a mongrel, nor a fool or a weakling. </em>" He would find her a good strong raider to be her groom. Perhaps Alfrik Kenning, Gorold Goodbrother, or even Nute the Barber should he prove loyal when he returns. There might be others that shall distinguish their steel in the wars to come, who shall need to be richly rewarded. It would be what is best for her, for the <em>Black Wind </em>would only bring her the winds of misfortune.</p><p>He would do it, and bring justice to many more, when he was the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Victarion will never bow again to the godless madman who did not deserve to call himself Greyjoy, much less king.</p><p>The horn that broke the noon air rang in his ears for many a moment, and for the first time in ten years, he prayed.</p><p>He prayed to the Drowned God for his blessing, for his winds to aid his chosen king.</p><p>"<em>This I give to you in penance, Lord of the Seas</em>," he prayed,"<em>For the time when I wished in unfaithfulness, without price, but you still gave</em>."</p><p>He had prayed out of fear then, for the green lands spat fireballs and the seas spat shafts of death. When the golden stags and green turtles had drowned the lush isle with its banners and smoke. When his voice ran hoarse from shouting, and the only sound he could hear was the fraying of the ropes as the winds blew their sails to doom. When he gazed upwards to see only a mast collapsing and the cold kiss of a salt spray.</p><p>"<em>I saw only flame that day</em>," Victarion remembered,"<em>Flame on the hulls. Flame on the waters. I wore plate, yet the God did not take me into his embrace. He shielded me from the fires with his hand of mercy and rebirth. I rose again from the seas, no longer the callow boy that I had been. I rose from the sea, harder and stronger</em>." It was that day that he knew, when he stood upon the golden sands, that he would never fall to the sea.</p><p>"<em>The Drowned God chose me to be his harbinger</em>," Victarion judged,"<em>and this day, I shall claim victory </em>."</p><p>The heat of the Meereenese sun boiled him inside his plate, yet he could scarce feel the stifling suffocation as he awaited the horn's call.</p><p>It made a different sound than it did at the kingsmoot, a piercing screech rather than the thunderous scream that he heard Euron's mongrel blow. Perhaps it is the presence of a true dragon. The salt spray tasted wet on his tongue, the swaying of the <em>Iron Victory </em>on the waves alike to the sway of a mother's cradle. His blood burned, and warm wet beads of sweat ran over his brow.</p><p>It seemed that the dragon had not heard.</p><p>"Was it my folly, and the horn has lost its magic?" he muttered. The red priest and the hornblower had made ready to blow the horn when they first joined the battle, but Victarion had stayed their bearth at the last moment.</p><p>"<em>Euron's gifts are laced with poison</em>," that warning had come to him at the last instant," <em>I would rather win this battle in the Old Way, with salt and iron. The might of the Iron Fleet is unmatched. I would rather trust in our hulls than Euron's gimmicks</em>."</p><p>"<em>Balon was mad</em>," Victarion thought,"<em>Aeron is madder, and Euron the maddest of them all</em>."</p><p>He could begrudge these people who are called the Qartheen their seamanship. They had matched the Iron Fleet ship for ship, and man for man, not cowering in the slightest.</p><p>"<em>Merchants fight to the death to shield their gold</em>," Victarion thought,"<em>They may pay with the golden price as weaklings do, but they pay also with iron. Almost Ironborn </em>"</p><p>The <em>Iron Victory </em>had only just claimed a smaller Qartheen galley, a crimson-streaked ship with the name in Valyrian symbols emblazoned on its side. Though their crew had been outnumbered ten to one, they slew fiercely, and many of Victarion's men lay dead. Wulfe One-Ear was amongst them, though he dragged two Qartheen into the waters while a spear was lodged in his side. Victarion's own plate was streaked with blood, though none of their blades were strong enough to graze his skin.</p><p>Perhaps the Drowned God will see to all the fallen this day. They could take no prisoners, for their stores would already be stretched to feed their own men on their sail home. He had ordered the small galley sunk, and heard faintly the wailing of the chained slaves at its oars as the waters claimed them. The Qartheen warriors were true to their sword, and fought and died with honour. They were worthy to feast with his own fathers in the Drowned God's halls.</p><p>The men of the northern camp had broken their fire ship with their trebuchets, and the galleys that he thought to trap within the Skahazadan were free to join the battle. They recognized Victarion's guise as soon as they saw how the imposter ships sailed.</p><p>"<em>Moqorro saw it in the fires</em>," he thought,"<em>if I did not use my gift. I was wrong, and he was right</em>."</p><p>The Qartheen formed into battle before his vanguard could form their surprise assault, and they engaged the Ironborn in the bay, where their smaller galleys outmaneuvered the Ironborn.</p><p>It had been a stalemate for much the morning since the red dawn, with no side gaining mastery over the seas. Victarion considered landing his men on the shores, raiding the city, and parting quickly with his dragon queen, but an ironman never backed down from a fight he was sure to win. The<em>Iron Victory </em>had claimed three galleys on its own, but it was apparent that their lines were collapsing. The time soon became noon, and he saw the sheen glisten on the arms of his crew, tirelessly hauling his sails. His men would not fight any harder when the day grew only warmer.</p><p>Much to his chagrin, he ordered a retreat.</p><p>"Dragons are fire made flesh," the priest had said,"and wood burns. My lord should use your dragonhorn, and bind the flame to your will. I have consulted the flames again in my chamber, and they have shown me another vision. The dragon flies ever closer to the sun, and soars further and further from the sea. You must perform this duty now, if we are to bind the dragon queen to your will before she falls into the hands of another."</p><p>As the horn's bellow faded, the dragon showed no change in its hornblower slumped forward in pain, and the dragonhorn dropped clunkily on the wooden deck. Victarion, though, only cared of the failed call.</p><p>"It needs king's blood," Moqorro said at his side, penetrating his thoughts,"It is no common man that can master a dragon."</p><p>"<em>And I am no common man</em>," Victarion thought,"<em>I am of the blood of Ironborn kings that ruled the waters since the dawn of man</em>." There is no better man to suit this task. There is no better man who has king's blood, not just in his ancestor's bones.</p><p>Victarion turned from his perch on the prow and marched with resounding steps that rang in thick clatters on the wood. The red priest followed. Two of his crew picked up the dropped dragonhorn and offered it to their captain.</p><p>The iron captain gritted his teeth, and drew the dirk at his side. He removed a gauntlet and opened his scarred palm.</p><p>"<em>It is only one more</em>," he thought, and cut deeply into his skin,"<em>How many bloodier wounds has a captain bore in all his life, a partner to steel's kiss? </em>"</p><p>A river of red ran from the knife's kiss, but Victarion could not feel the pain as his head swam with flame. He held his palm over the gold. A single drop issued from his closed fist and landed upon the dragonhorn. It sizzled, the blood dissolving into the ancient runes, glowing with crimson light. A searing pain seized his mind, as if he were being drowned and burned at the same time. His scarred arm burned with the same fury, a red glow blinding his sight. He brought his eyes to his arm, and saw the veins freshly crack, the light seeping through his vambrace. The world devolved into darkness, and the iron captain fell.</p><p>When he opened his eyes, the pain became only a glimmer, a distant memory upon his mind. He saw himself soaring above the seas, its white foam glittering and caressing his snout. He flew low, the waters scraping his belly and his wings. He soared high, awakening a torrent of salt spray, until the blue of the sea blended with the blue of the sky. In the distance, he could see his fleet of ships, and even further away the high pyramids of a golden city. He saw two lines of gold and grey, and a white knight leading a hopeless charge against an endless horde. Pain seized his mind again, and he saw the seas no more.</p><p>He opened his eyes above the golden city, its streets in chaos as beasts tore into men, banners being shredded and hovels being burned. Cloaks clashed of all colours, black and white and red and gold. When his eyes fell on the highest pyramid, he saw a bloodstained boy gazing at him, his cold eyes shining in calculated malice.</p><p>His bowels dropped like stones, and cold ran from spine to tail as he saw the shadows of ashen corpses, soon to come. He knew that the boy must burn. The icy voice whispered, and his silver scales were coated in frost. The flames would never lie. The kind man with blue eyes and blue lips would never lie. Knowing through unspoken words, he raised his wings to soar towards him. As he opened his mouth to breathe flame, the same pain came, and Victarion's vision blackened once more.</p><p>He woke again, this time within a decorated chamber. It was richly burnished, though not as grand as some greenlander halls he reaved. It was laid with silks, furs, and gems. It was clear that this was the manor of a lord, perhaps a king, adorned with treasures of all kinds. But his eyes found only one treasure that was to his delight. Her gown of white silk lay on a rack in the chamber's side, and he saw the soft curve of her breasts breach her furs. Her silver hair gleamed like moonlight by the fires of the torches. His bride laid in bed, though it was clear that outside the chamber, night had not come.</p><p>"<em>The rumours have been true</em>," he thought,"<em>My beautiful dragon queen is as lovely as the tales say</em>."</p><p>"<em>My queen</em>," he made to say,"<em>Your captain is at your service</em>." Only a snarl could be heard erupt from his tongue.</p><p>The dragon queen stirred, and shook the furs from her body. He beheld her form, perfect in every manner.</p><p>"<em>A woman worthy to be my queen</em>," he thought,"<em>When the kraken weds the dragon, let all the world beware. Brother, you never told of which kraken. When I wed the dragon, you shall beware. You will know my vengeance. An eye for an eye. A bride for a bride</em>."</p><p>His bride opened her violet eyes, shining with beauty and brilliance. She approached him, and caressed his cheek with her warm hand,"What is it, Drogon?"</p><p>Victarion made to respond, but his vision shifted again.</p><p>He found himself free of the heat of Essos, but cold, colder than he had ever felt before. He opened his eyes, but this time his vision did not brighten. He was greeted by darkness. A lone light appeared, red and shimmering.</p><p>"<em>An eye</em>," Victarion thought, as he beheld another appear, then another. More began to come, slowly at first. They came one at a time, then in couples of two, until his eyes soon lost track of the coming of the light. Dozens more began to swarm his vision, until the darkness became nought but the red glow of eyes. The light pierced the gloom, illuminating pits of darkness. They turned their gaze to him, and he roared in pain as their brilliance shone on his scales. He felt tentacles grasp his legs, grasp his wings, and grasp his throat. They stiffened their grip, and in the unending death glow of crimson light, Victarion closed his eyes, until he knew no more.</p><p>Victarion saw a dozen more visions, from a shadow-bound river of darkness to palaces of redwood and jade, until he returned to the sea.</p><p>He soared above the spray, free and powerful, relishing in his strength amidst the final rankle of the heat of pain. Searing fire burned his arm, and he gave himself to the black.</p><p>Victarion woke, gasping on the deck of the <em>Iron Victory </em>, his scarred hand still burning. It glared with a heavenly light, blood running in rivers from the crevices of wounds both old and new. He dared to touch it, and it was red hot. He did not wish to think of his visions, for each time he spelled them in his mind. the same pain would follow.</p><p>Moqorro was with him in an instant, tracing his staff across Vicatarion's bleeding arm, healing it as it passed.</p><p>Victarion noted that one of his crew lay dead with his throat slit.</p><p>Moqorro noticed his gaze,"Only death can pay for life. It was the greatest fortune that you were able to return. Only one in a thousand men could do so, even with blood calling the soul back."</p><p>Victarion's eyes met the sky, and he knew that he had fallen, lying on the deck of his ship.</p><p>The red priest's face followed Victarion's vision, and he saw him smile,"You succeeded. Only the strongest may pass the trials of the Dragonbinder and live. The Valyrians placed mighty spells in its gold when they wrought its magic, so only the blood of the dragon could tame their beasts with the horn. Only the greatest kings of those not of that blood may pass the trials as well."</p><p>Victarion braced another wave of spasms, until the fog that permeated his mind cleared, leaving a dull aching in its wake.</p><p>"<em>I do not care for the pain</em>," Victarion thought,"<em>only that it means that the dragonhorn will do its work</em>."</p><p>Moqorro sought to support the captain to stand, but Victarion brushed him off. No ironman should need the strength of another to lend to his own, much less an iron captain. A ship that cannot sail in a storm is no ship at all.</p><p>"<em>Perhaps one day</em>," he thought,"<em>when my strength is old and my chamber is decorated by the banners I tore and the crowns I won, when my sons and grandsons fill the halls with booming laughter. I will not be able to lift my axe again, but I will keep it to remember those times when I would slay a hundred a day. I will have a dozen maids carry me to my bed, where they will bear the honour of carrying the kraken's seed. They will lick honey off my driftwood crown, and be fortunate to win the favour of a king</em>." No matter how well a ship could be built, no matter how fine its wood was when it was originally harvested, it will grow old with time, and Victarion knew that even the strongest of ships would have a time when it will no longer be able to sail the seas..</p><p>He pressed his palm against the wooden deck, and pushed himself so his eyes could see not just the railing and the feet of his men. A splinter dug into his kin, and he winced slightly. But he could not show weakness after the fall, so he hid his pain. He would dig it out with his knife later, when victory had been assured. Victarion rose steadily to his feet, and searched the eyes of his men for any thought of mutiny. Theirs betrayed only fear and obedience. It satisfied the captain. He would not have that Summer Sea farce again when the glory of the Ironborn was near.</p><p>His eyes searched the skies until they came upon the emerald dragon, the one soaring above the waves.</p><p>"<em>You</em>," he thought,"<em>You will be my thrall. You will give me your brothers and your mother</em>."</p><p>The Drowned God answered his prayer, as he saw the dragon curb off its course to fly towards the <em>Iron Victory </em>. Silence had drowned the hull when the eerie screech of the dragonhorn sounded, but now cheers washed over his crew. The Ironborn knew that with the dragon, victory was here.</p><p>"<em>If they should prove themselves loyal</em>," Victarion thought,"<em>their king shall make them all lords of the green lands</em>."</p><p>"See this, Crow's Eye," he muttered, and Moqorro turned his head curiously,"I will win the Ironborn future, not you. There is always a price you have to pay. If you had not been a monster, a younger would know to serve an elder. But now my duty is done. Power is what makes an ironman king. Such is the Drowned God's will, and you gave me the might to shatter yours."</p><p>He smiled as he knew his vengeance would come,"An eye for an eye. A bride for a bride."</p><p>The dragon came swiftly to its master, its wings already stretching to shade half the sun's light. Far in the horizon, he saw the Qartheen battle galleys in their formation. They halted their advance, forming a ragged defensive battle line.</p><p>"<em>They think it means to burn us</em>," Victarion chuckled amusingly as the notion danced across his mind<em>,"They thought none could master the beasts. But not every man is a common man</em>."</p><p>King Gorwald Goodbrother the Mariner had spent much of his youth in the east, selling his sail in the wars of the Empires of Ghis and Valyria. His own wife saw little of her husband, for the pleasure of a woman's embrace is little compared to the pleasures of the sea. The young lord, not yet king, had only returned to the Iron Isles once or twice in years, his sails spanning the length of all the seas. The ironborn at home had taken to calling his wife Lady Codd, for she found her warmth in the arms of another lord while her husband would not return from his travels. She appeared under the Codd banner many more times than she would sit under the Goodbrother horn. Of King Gorwold's seven sons, it is said that only the third was from his seed, and the rest were by the seed of his sworn brother. It was rumoured that King Gorwold knew of the affair, but pitied his wife in his long travels at sea. He would not change his habit, so he made an unspoken agreement with the brother who was raised under the same roof, Lord Codd, to entertain his wife's pleasure while he voyaged.</p><p>Gorwold had fought more than half his battles swearing to the Ghiscari, and the <em>Salt Bride </em>may have sailed the waters in which the <em>Iron Victory </em>sailed now. The ancient king had faced dragons, at the time when Valyria was on their rise. When dragonhorns screeched at his time, dozens of winged beasts would descend from the light of the sun, enthralled by the whip of the ancient dragonlords. Their ships had been made of wood, but the Ghiscari <em>maegi </em>, as the tales told, cast spells on the hulls and sails of their ships to ward dragonflame.</p><p>"<em>There are no spells now</em>," he thought,"<em>and their ships will burn</em>."</p><p>The dragon approached ever nearer, and he bathed in the glory of its majesty. Sailing to Meereen, Victarion had heard many a sailor's tale on his bride's children, but none could do it justice. Its scales shimmered gold and green, like the dancing dapple of light on the formidable expanse of the summer seas. They shone also in white brilliance under the noon sun. The dragon soon neared his flagship, and the shadow of its wing enveloped the upper deck. It hovered above the mast, swaying its scales and tail of gargantuan size. The man in the crow's nest, shocked by its sudden appearance, forgot where he stood and fell from his perch, breaking his neck as he fell from the heights. His other crew soon threw him overboard, for they could not bring any corpses home.</p><p>The emerald beast opened its maw, and through its teeth he could spy a glint of fire. Such might would have trembled lesser men, as he heard the ecstatic cheers of his men fade to frightened whispers, but the might of the kraken is not easily cowed.</p><p>"<em>Since the Grey King and Nagga the Sea-Drake</em>," he thought,"<em>the blood of ironborn kings run prideful and pure. Only I may yet command the obedience of such might. Only I am of the mind and body to wed a dragon</em>." The beast roared, and a gust of heated wind washed across the deck. Victarion stood firm, though his cloak and hair billowed behind him. He gazed unblinkingly at his prize, and widened his smile.</p><p>He made to give the beast a command when the roar died, but another voice pierced the song of sea and fire.</p><p>It was Moqorro, but was the booming command that the red priest only wielded in the ceremonies of his fire god.</p><p>"<em>He will know one more Lord of Light</em>," Victarion thought,"<em>He will know one more Lord of Flame</em>."</p><p>The priest's arms wee raised as if in prayer of his queer rituals, chanting a tongue he did not know. As he turned to face the priest, the corner of his eyes found a disgusting sight. His crew were cowering near the end of the ship, and those were the ones that still possessed an ounce of courage. Others he could see fleeing overboard, their brave farce that they commonly put upon their faces cracking to reveal their true nature.</p><p>"Cowards," he snarled.</p><p>"<em>The Drowned God remembers all</em>," he thought,"<em>and when he collects his due, he will not forget the men that forsook their captain and their king </em>."</p><p>"Care not for them, my brother," he heard Moqorro say,"Rats have no place in the winds of gods and kings. The storm will come, and it will claim those unfaithful and craven."</p><p>He averted his eyes from the sight, for there was a greater duty that called to him," You were speaking in a tongue I do not know, but recognize the sounds of the words. What were you speaking with the beast?" A hint of doubt crept into Victarion's voice near the end of his demand.</p><p>Moqorro smiled, his eyes not straying from their forefront gaze. Little beads of red danced in his left eye on the side Victarion could see, illuminating the otherwise dark abyss.</p><p>"My captain," he spoke in the Common Tongue,"It is High Valyrian. Not so the High Valyrian that you hear by the nobles of the Free Cities, but older. Old Valyrian, a tongue that is no longer spoken, and only bastard dialects remain. The High Valyrian that you may hear this day is one of the more fairer bastards, but a bastard all the same. Bastards come in all forms, depending on which mother it is birthed upon, and so are are blended with the land that bore them, and if the mother has a hair different to the father, the child could have either. I speak Old Valyrian, the Valyrian that was spoken by the dragonlords of the Freehold in the days before the Doom claimed the empire. The Valyrians loved their beasts well. Dragons are not like horses or hounds, or perhaps even thralls, raised to only be capable of what they are trained to be. Their intelligence may surpass even that of a man. Most men, anyways, those that never studied the arts of dragonlore. This tongue that I speak is dead in many places of the world, where it was once spoken as commonly as the Common Tongue in Westeros. It is still spoken in far Asshai, the highest courts of Yi Ti, and the Kingdom of the Ifeqevron who pray in those tongues to their carved trees. Perhaps in other lands that I do not know. High Valyrian was the tongue that the dragonlords used to converse with their steeds. The Targaryen kings of Westeros, those dragonlords you know well, did the same. Though since Aenar the Exile, for every generation that passed, the bonds weakened with their beasts, until such time when dragons became only as horses, simple-minded tools to be used in war. That is because the Valyrian, though still fair, differed greatly from its ancient roots. The Dragonbinder may bind the dragon's will to yours, but unless you are true to its heart, it will, as they once did to their Targaryen masters, fade and dwindle until none remain. Do you wish all your descendants to rule the world as you do, and not have their throne claimed by an Usurper when their dragons inevitably die? That is what I declared to the beast, to recognize you not just as its master, but as its friend, who it will shield with its flame until its dying breath.A dragon would only respond to its own tongue, that language that was infused in the blood of the dragons by the mighty Valyrian sorcerers of old. If you are to truly master the dragon, you must do the same. Heed my words, and learn to speak your commands it knew from its birth."</p><p>Victarion had grown impatient of his speech, and stated simply,"Is it that you need to speak Old Valyrian for it to heed my commands?"</p><p>Moqorro nodded," If you are to learn it and speak to it at your own disposal, I would be honoured to teach another king. It will take several years, but a king would find easily the words of other kings."</p><p>Victarion scowled,"I have you, and that is all that is needed. We have wasted enough time as it is, giving the Qartheen precious seconds to reform. Give the dragon the command to burn their ships to the last. I will give this fire as my bride gift to its mother."</p><p>"<em>They are fortunate that I came</em>," he thought,"<em>the only man that could master a dragon besides the queen. If I had not, none would be able to direct their flames at the foes</em>."</p><p>"As you command, my king," Moqorro replied.</p><p>He turned to face Victarion, revealing his other eye.</p><p>The captain felt his stomach clench for the first time in ten years, since the winds blew at Fair Isle. For Moqorro's other eye was no longer human, and burned with an unearthly red flame. It was laced with cracks of lightning that danced on the empty socket, tracing white streaks across its path. His cloak, which Victarion thought to be of red silk, was now wreathed in flame of the same colour, the crimson of the priest's god. It seemed that the sun shone ever brighter.</p><p>Moqorro turned to the green beast, and bellowed in words that were harsh screams. The fires of his cloak ignited the wooden deck of Victarion's ship, and the wood soon sputtered into a ghastly flame. The wildfire spread, engulfing the entire deck of the <em>Iron Victory </em>. Men jumped overboard, but those unfortunate did not make it in time. He could hear the screams of his men as they were burned alive, though the fires could not touch him. With every phrase that was uttered, Moqorro's voice resounded heavier and heavier, until it became a booming echo in Victarion's mind. He did not hear the mast crashing down, and only saw it in time to dodge its blow, and he could not hear as his flagship splintered and sank. He only tasted of the salt when his boots graced water. The crash of a door broke his trance, and he turned his gaze to meet the dusky woman rushing towards him. He had ordered her to stay below decks during the battle. She ran, uncaring that the wall of flame torched every inch of her skin. She burst into Victarion's arms, and fell to her knees. With her dying breath, she grasped Victarion's hand, opened his palm, and drew with burning strokes. He looked at the skin, and saw the red patches that formed the likeness of an eye.</p><p>"<em>No</em>," he thought, and loosened his axe at his belt. He threw it at Moqorro, though the ship swayed as another wave crashed over the railing, and it missed its mark.</p><p>"Euron," he shouted, the dusky woman at his side collapsing to her death, her skin now the colour of ash. Though she touched him, Victarion did not feel any flame climbing his cloak.</p><p>The priest that was his brother's puppet turned, and he smiled maliciously,"I am not your brother, my dear captain. I am only a humble messenger." His voice was silky, smooth and even, though the wood that he stood upon cracked like thunder.</p><p>"The Iron Fleet has done its duty, and you have done yours," he said, glaring at the axe that was buried in a railing that was soon to fall.</p><p>He gazed with false sympathy towards Victarion,"Your brother wishes no enmity between kin. He tells me to tell you that for the sake of the mother that bore you both, please heed my counsel. It is still his will to grant you the Seastone Chair. Abandon this folly, and you may still rule together as friends and brothers. Bring him the dragon queen, forsake your ambition. For he is always with you, whether in me, or all the men that you may meet. Wherever you are, the Crow's Eye always sees. But blood runs deeper than steel. Bring him the dragon queen, and you will have all you wish. He will forget your folly and allow me to put out this flame, and you shall rule Westeros as king and king, the last of the Greyjoy brothers. Only the strongest remain in the very end, and that is you and him. With your strength and his cunning, you shall remain kings and equals, from this day until your last days. That is the choice he sets before you. He says that he does not wish to slay another brother."</p><p>Another flame rose within Victarion, and he tightened his hold on his second axe. If there were no wall of flame protecting the warlock, he would have stormed across, and slay his brother's hound. Damn the consequences.</p><p>"<em>The flames don't touch me</em>," he comforted himself,"<em>and I shall never fall in the sea</em>."</p><p>"Euron killed Balon," he snarled furiously.</p><p>Moqorro's face remained as still as a calm sea. The fire on his one eye expanded outwards, starting to devour Moqorro's face and torso,"The storm cannot choose, brother. Every fool that wanders in its way will be cast to their doom. He is innocent of that charge. Would you blame the seas and winds for your misfortunes? Would you blame the Drowned God for your failings? The Old Way, the path we will take to glory, is the Drowned God's way. He stands amongst you now, but will you hate his storm? The storm is inevitable. It comes for every man. As fire does. As winter does. Its path, however, is not. I counsel you one last time. Do not stand in its way."</p><p>Victarion's answer was swift, though the hull swayed again with another wave of bitter salt, and his axe missed again.</p><p>Moqorro slowly nodded, the fires having engulfed his entire upper torso,"I shall regret this, brother. I am truly sorry. But all men must face the storm, and they are the judge of how it shall pass."</p><p>His lips shone a deep blue as he spoke his final words, until all features were lost in a torrent of flame. The fires engulfed Moqorro's body, and the red priest melted into ash.</p><p>Victarion's scarred arm burned again with renewed fury, and the captain collapsed to his knees. His shield broke, and the fires kissed him roughly with tendrils of darkness. The iron captain raised his head for the last time, and saw dragonflame.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. TYRION</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His were better captors than he had known.<br/><br/>"<em>Though </em>," he mused," <em>This has become almost a farce. Does the Seven wish to play me until I beg to be given to the Stranger?" </em>He hoped that he could have lost count of the number of times that he had been bound and led. Tyrion vividly remembered every capture, and the number had sat at three, four by now. <br/><br/>Lady Stark was the winter lady of Riverrun. The southern pride that had embraced the cruel north. When she thought that Tyrion had attempted to murder her son, she had a heart and face of stone. <br/><br/>When he had been framed for the murder of his nephew, his sweet sister had made certain that Tyrion would have every discomfort. His new masters were to Cersei as the Maid was to the Mountain. <br/><br/>"<em>If it had not been for my father and brother </em>," he realized in disgust," <em>I might not have lived to see the trial, though much good that did me </em>." He would not thank them, for they did him the same mock honour that the noble before him did now. But the gods had granted him the chance to live. He would survive these masters as he would have survived the last, as he had survived the yoke of the lion banner. He would live to give his sweet sister the same favour that she had allowed him.<br/><br/>"<em>A creak of an iron hinge </em>," he thought,"<em>A</em> <em>saunter of a small shadow at night, and I'll have what my brother tasted. I'll see how sweet it is to drive him mad </em>." <br/><br/>The hospitality of the Yunkish was no more welcoming than the embrace of his sister, though he were more than oft overlooked as they had many more slaves to attend to. His new captors had only them.<br/><br/>He glanced at the bear knight, who sat brooding, regaining his former fury.<br/><br/>"<em>Don't do anything foolish, Mormont </em>," he thought, hoping his eyes would betray his message through that thick skull," <em>They do not know us, and the tongue of the dwarf may win them to our favour. I cannot let it be undone because a bear thought it suitable at this time to show his might </em>."<br/><br/>It was the eastern camp that they were being led to.<br/><br/>"<em>These are the New Ghiscari </em>," he thought," <em>The men that claim to be the direct heirs of the old Empires of Ghis. They were slavers, but the most courteous ones. It is said that they keep the laws and customs of the ancient empire the truest in Slaver's Bay </em>."<br/><br/>"<em>New Ghis seats upon an isle </em>," he thought," <em>There was a reason that led the Ironborn to be less learned than the mainlanders. None could disturb their peace had they kept their navy strong, so their customs were not diluted by the fires of war. They were the weakest in Slaver's Bay, though, as the ancient ways were old and decrepit compared to the men upon the shores that made to each other constant battle. They fought eternally, whether by trade or by swords, sometimes by both. All sought to claim the crown of the trade, to be the first in gold of Slaver's Bay. It was only the arrival of the dragon queen that united them in a common cause. Her threat was the chain that bound the slavers together, much as they hated each other. Even now as allies, they plot against each other, to gain the stewardship of the Bay when the dragon queen is defeated. It was wise of the Yunkish to separate themselves from their island kin, but it was not as wise as they think</em>."<br/><br/>Meereen rose in the west. They looked upon the city as if from the skies, for the high hills on which the New Ghiscari were encamped rose higher than even the tallest watchtower. <br/><br/>It offered the camp a numerous bounty of natural defenses. Aided by the cesspits and caltrops laid outside the camp as they arrived, with countless other traps that they did not know, any dragon that thought to torch the golden drapes would find needles in their wings. Their comfortable defense, however, had made the New Ghiscari less eager to seek out open assault. He had heard Yurkhaz zo Yunzak complain that their allies were as lazy as swamp dogs. Tyrion supposed that they what the Westerosi named lizard lions.<br/><br/>"<em>Lizard lion or no </em>," he thought," <em>but a lion all the same. A lion knows when to hide, and when to strike. This little lion knows that too </em>."<br/><br/>It was clear that only necessity had brought the slaver alliance together, and the Yunkish hated the New Ghiscari almost as much as they hated the Meereenese and the dragon queen. <br/><br/>The Yunkish had planned to attack at dawn, but the Drunken Conqueror's missives were insulting. The New Ghiscari saw it as addressing a slave rather than a fellow equal. They responded, of course, but not in manners of arms as the Yunkish had wished. They dispatched messengers with gifts and promising, exchanging flowery words that had no meaning. So the day passed, with much tongues wagging and no accord established between the two factions as to their assault. The attack at dawn had been ever delayed, and now the noon sun lay high in the sky.<br/><br/>Tyrion knew that they had their own designs , for they would otherwise not threaten their greatest ally. This battle would judge not only the course of the dragon queen's war, but also who would become the chief power in Slaver's Bay following the death of the dragons. The New Ghiscari wanted that crown to be their own, so they could not win victory under a Yunkish banner.<br/><br/>He just needed to find how they wished to succeed with their lesser numbers and gold. He needed to find who was backing them, for this would surely aid only the dragon queen. They could not sway themselves to aid the queen's cause, so what was this cause of this change of heart? What promises had been made, and where would the dragon queen go?<br/><br/>"<em>Someone is spinning this web </em>," Tyrion thought," <em>The Spider's legs could have spread as far as Meereen </em>."<br/><br/>Perhaps it was not that Lysene eunuch that was plotting this treachery. There are spiders in every city, after all.<br/><br/>"<em>I need to find this spider </em>,"he thought," <em>and I may yet survive </em>." His skin tingled with sweat as the sun reached its apex.<br/><br/>His captor had surprisingly been the most informative. The New Ghiscari noble, as Tyrion judged by what he wore and how he spoke, wore a white silk doublet crowned with golden thread. It was light and tight-fitting, a shirt worn by a warrior at leisure. He sported no cloak, but upon his shoulders the gold thread formed the shape of the beaks of falcons.<br/><br/>"<em>Eagle</em>," he corrected himself,"<em>their eyes are not brown, but</em> <em>shining gold</em>." His dark hair grew into vulture's peak, and they were close cropped to frame a youthful face.<br/><br/>This boy had been the one to spring the trap on Mormont and Tyrion. The bear knight had taken the longer route to Meereen in order to avoid pursuit. The more common passages had been manned by the more experienced men, while the ones more remote were given to green boys. They were still capable of snaring a dwarf and his companion. <br/><br/>The boy's name was Calysus Flinias, of the noble house of Fliniance. He was the second son of a New Ghiscari Pyramid master. He had no place in the inheritance, as his elder brother had already wed and birthed a pair of twin sons before he were conceived on his father's third wife. He thought to become one with the sword and travel the lands selling his blade, earning renown and glory that he would have not had by law.<br/><br/>The noble's eighteenth nameday had passed several months ago, as he had told Tyrion. He had been preparing to leave his isle home, taking the life that he had wished. But he heard of the dragon queen, and New Ghis raised its legions. He came with their host to win gold and glory at the gates of Meereen.<br/><br/>"When the war was won," he said,"I'll claim my fair share of Meereenese gratitude. I'll form my own company. Perhaps the name the Second Sons will do, and we shall surpass those men of dishonour. It is an apt name for the heir that wins his own fortune, and we shall win the name truthfulness and honour once more."<br/><br/>It would seem that the boy's father had wisely urged the legions' leader to look out for this green boy, for the noble whined ceaselessly of how his orders seemed to always place him out of the line of battle. <br/><br/>It was only chance that had led Tyrion into his net, and the noble was all too glad.<br/><br/>"<em>Too glad </em>," he thought,"<em>and joy opens mens' mouths. I would never have found this trove of gold if the master who captured me knew to keep their lips sealed. I just hope that Mormont does not ruin this farce by wounding the boy's pride </em>."<br/><br/>Taken from his dragon queen at the last moment, with the city's walls in his eyes, he had fought fiercely to break free. The New Ghiscari had been instructed to capture, and only kill when necessary. Mormont had broken free of the spear wall for an instant, as they withdrew their points so as not to pierce his neck. He drew his sword, and lived up to his house words. He stood, though not for long. It had taken ten men to subdue him, and even now he marched brooding in fury, glaring daggers as Tyrion and the boy conversed.<br/><br/>"<em>Don't do anything</em>," he thought again," <em>I do not care if the dragon queen takes you in, fucks you, or discards you, only that I would gain her dragons through you. If you would kill yourself, I would not care. I might even welcome it as just recompense for the ill hospitality you allowed me as your prisoner. But if you raised your hand to a master, I would most like be lynched beside you </em>." <br/><br/>The young master had invited Tyrion to walk alongside him though the dwarf was his prisoner.<br/><br/>Tyrion gazed at the golden banners that adorned the New Ghiscari camp. They were many, showing their might to their foes though these camps were empty.<br/><br/>"<em>For hands of gold are always gold</em>,"he thought in amusement," <em>But a woman's hands are warm </em>. <em>So are a dwarf's. My hands are warm. This is not Westeros, where the dark cold of night will numb your skin, feeling not the cold winds, blood, and steel </em>." The mocking voice felt warm now, though it might have been the Meereenese heat.<br/><br/>"<em>My hands are warm </em>," he thought," <em>In this heat, you feel the cold, but not my warm hands wrapping around your throats </em>."<br/><br/>"<em>But a woman's hands are also warm </em>," the true words came back to him.<br/><br/>"<em>Not a whore </em>," he told himself,"<em>not a whore. Jaime would not lie. Shae had been a whore, but my maid that was as fair as summer was never one. Her hands were warm, but so were Shae's. The true whores all caress me with warmth, so that I cannot find my wife. Where do whores go? Are the dragon queen's hands warm with the blood of dragonfire, or was it cold as my father's. I touched his once, and know how it feels. That blood spilled black on the privy in the dim sheen of the moonlight, stained with all the graves that scream his name. Though I can touch his blood in my own, though why does my skin feel as warm as spring. The souls of the Blackwater would cry my name as loud as Castamere would cry his. Every lion was the same at the core, black and cruel. What of this dragon queen? No conqueror is not also a butcher. Her blood was traced with the ashes of half the souls of Slaver's bay, her cities company with the razing flames that raised her reign. A dragon's soul may be flame, and its scales may burn, but its blood is as cold as any other beast. The brighter the flame, the colder the heart, for it burns all the longer, and slays all the more. A dragon's heart is as cold as a lion's. As cold as winter. As cold as snow. But that would suit my purpose. Cold mates with cold, as my gallant brother and sweet sister proved for me </em>."<br/><br/>Only a whore's hands were warm, but the hands of a queen are always cold. As cold as gold and steel. The shadow of her hand hung over the Ghiscari camp. <br/><br/>Their hosts had marched to war, and many tents bore no inhabitants. But perhaps it was supposed to be so. He saw no remnant from the morning cookfires that would surely be still spouting black tendrils. He did not see the frequenting of serving girls and boys, as well as the guards that were left to garrison the camp. He could not see any master leading a reserve line of slaves to join the battle. He did not see any that he saw in the camps of his father when his host marched to battle.<br/><br/>"<em>This is a ghost camp </em>," he thought,"<em>A mummer's host, erected to make the numbers of the New Ghiscari seem larger than they truly were</em>." It was almost truthful, for the trail that they trod bore the prints of many men, and the green grass that had otherwise grown lay filthy and beaten.<br/><br/>Vultures, however, flew above them, breaching the secret that the camp held.<br/><br/>No vultures flew above the centre of the eastern slaver camp , which lay upon a sheer cliff. It lay afar, for they had only entered the outskirts. The camps housing the masters were shielded in their flank by those of their legions and in the west by the rocks.<br/><br/>Ser Barristan would have been unwise to assail them here, which was perhaps why he had thought to strike at the south.<br/><br/>"<em>The east has not joined </em>," Tyrion thought," <em>If they join, then Ser Barristan is sure to fall. If Ser Barristan falls, Meereen will fall. If it should yield to the siege, it should fall into the right hands </em>."<br/><br/>"<em>Which would make the weakest conquerors?" </em>he thought," <em>New Ghis. They are at odds with all of Yunkai, the Lhazareen, and even Volantis</em>." If New Ghis were to take the city, then it shall surely plunge into anarchy. From its ashes, his dragon will rise.<br/><br/>They were not heading towards the master's camp, however, but the camp further east.<br/><br/>"<em>The slaves' camp </em>," he thought. His father's army had oft as many camp followers as they did soldiers.<br/><br/>"<em>Cooks </em>," he thought,"<em>Pages. Smiths and Crofters. Servants. Washerwomen. Whores. Our slaves were much the same, though my father's were told that they were free </em>." Tyrion and Mormont were being led the wrong way.<br/><br/>"My lord," Tyrion said. The young man seemed to enjoy this empty laurel.<br/><br/>"May I know," he spoke,"where you are taking us?"<br/><br/>The boy turned, and gave a sly smile,"That may depend. If you were slaves, I'd take you to join ours. You will not be worthy of meeting our masters, but our foreman would find you a place. Your companion may suit as a soldier. Perhaps he could bear the honour of guarding one of our radiant lords should he prove loyal and strong. Even for you, we may find a use. I have found that our hosts are greatly lacking in our number of fools. Every man needs his laughter, even in these times of war. If you were merchants or common freemen caught in the war, my orders were to expel you from our camps. You would be free to go to what place suits you, as you have no part in our wars. If you are a noble or a master, then your fate is not for me to decide. The Lord Commander has ordered that any foreign noble caught was to be treated in the manner of honour and dignity. They were to granted the highest hospitality, and would be arranged to meet with our own nobles to share in the bread befitting golden blood. Tell me. Which one of them are you?"<br/><br/>"<em>He wants to play a game</em>," Tyrion thought,"<em>Two can play, and he has not even half the wit of my proud sister </em>."<br/><br/>"What's your name, dwarf?" the boy said mockingly.<br/><br/>"<em>Tyrion of House Lannister</em>," he wanted to say,"<em>Second Son of Tywin Lannister, the Bloody Lion of the Rock. Lord of Casterly Rock. Warden of the West. Lord Paramount of the Westerlands </em>."<br/><br/>He chuckled silently and thought,"<em>Light of the West. Men look west and expect to see the likes of my sister, the true golden beauty that they will swarm like moths over. But they will see me, a shade where there should have been fire, darkness where there should be light.A dim candle where there should be a roaring flame. Yet it is not golden and false. They will lear</em>n <em>that what is bright is cold and distant. In the darkness, they shall feel fear, yet the only flame that could bear warmth is the flame that they will hate</em>."<br/><br/>"<em>You cannot see the light, my young master</em>," he thought,"<em>You have two shining eyes. How can you be so blind?"</em><br/><br/>The maimed dragon was the most dangerous of them all, save perhaps his uncle. The maimed lion is the same.<br/><br/>"They call me Dnomea Ragahv. My fellows name me Bloody Cheese, because I loved cheese, and there weren't always enough for every man. I was born one of the Ibbenese, the son of a minor lord. He fathered a large house, and his lands prospered in peace, but it did not last beyond his death. When he passed, my elder sister and my elder brother squabbled over our inheritance. In my lands, there are no laws beside a lord's word. As my brother was not satisfied with his share, he raised his friends in attack of my sister's rights. I did not wish to take part in the fighting, so I fled in a merchant's cog which was said to be going to Lorath. I thought to make myself a new life.There were many tales of my countrymen making fortunes upon the mainland, my uncle amongst them. On the seas, though, we were set upon by pirates.The merchant paid compensation and escaped unscathed with his ship intact, but the passengers were apart of that price. I had no coin to offer, so the pirates took me as a slave. I was sold at Yunkai to one of the masters, and he joined the Siege of Meereen. He brought me to entertain him as his fool, and I met my companion, another slave who was a member of his guard. I am a slave. We are slaves. I beg your most sincerest pardon."<br/><br/>The boy narrowed his eyes and stared crookedly at him, his smile widening. His pupils bore a malicious glint, the shadows making his brown eyes seem almost as black as his hair. Those dark pupils tried to pierce Tyrion's, though his own emeralds reflected their darkness. <br/><br/>A startling crash disrupted their march, and they heard chains rattling again.<br/><br/>He did not search for another excuse to tell the boy,"<em> Mormont chose quite an opportune time </em>." <br/><br/>He turned to find the knight thrashing again, bashing two slavers to their knees as three more struggled to contain him. They dealt several blows to his gut, though a bear does not fall easy, and only when all five of his captors restrained his every limb, beating him all the while, did he lie spattering on the earth. Blood was scattered over amidst worn bits of tattered cloth. The sun revealed the black bruises that had begun to form on Mormont's tattooed cheek and under his right eye. His left arm was a patchwork of blood and linen, with yellow pus flowing from open wounds. He lay kneeling, puking the bile of his morning meal. His captors edged their feet away from the growing mass of stinking green moss, but kept their arms on Mormont. <br/><br/>Tyrion walked before the knight, glaring at him with what was sure to look a furious glance. He shouted gibberish at him, and hoped none here could understand true Ibbenese. When the knight raised his head in confusion, Tyrion pretended that it was the New Ghiscari boy's, and slapped him as hard as his bound hands could allow.<br/><br/>"I'm sorry," he added in Dothraki. It was the only phrase he had bothered to learn of that harsh tongue, in the case that he offended one of the horselords.<br/><br/>With the knight's eyes in utter confusion, Tyrion shouted with a tone even greater than before, uttering nothing but more mangled gibberish. He added some Valyrian words for good measure, such as "slave","city, and"horse". He slapped Ser Jorah harder this time. <br/><br/>The remaining captors were pulling him away in an instant. He soon saw the amused eyes of the boy.<br/><br/>"You are no slave, are you?" he spoke callously,"You are a master. A Yunkish master, and I have finally caught a golden batch."<br/><br/>As the boy delighted in his realization, Tyrion widened his eyes in mock horror.<br/><br/><br/><br/>He could hear the clamour before he saw it. As he drew closer, For a moment, Tyrion thought that he were back at Joffrey's wedding, though he was glad that his nephew had not returned at similar revels.<br/><br/>The masters' camp looked to be in the midst of a feast rather than a war. Amidst the shouts of drunken men who gambled and laughed, he heard the singing flute that would have been commonplace at a harvest ball. <br/><br/>He passed a pavilion hosting dozens of mailed men. Their weapons, however, lay abandoned to their side. They relished in their seats, enjoying their drinks and spectacle. One man who had only one eye and no nose told the others a jape. They all laughed. Slave serving girls made rounds refilling the cups that were exhausted. They seemed to forget that they might be called in an instant to battle. The war lay forgotten as they reveled in their pavilion with little sight of the distant storm. The spectacle had demanded the attention of their eyes. It seemed that the New Ghiscari had no less need of entertainment as the Yunkish. A fool and an acrobat put on a play, which many were watching as they reclined on the grassy ground. Far aback in the tent, he saw a troupe of dancing maidens, which saw the attention of many men.<br/><br/>"<em>No </em>," he thought as he saw one of the golden-clad sellswords rise and reach under a girl's skirt,"<em>Not maidens</em>."<br/><br/>The other tents were much the same, with only select soldiers gazing afar to the true battle. The sands were calm in the peace before the storm, and men had other desires than watching an empty field. Most of the others were too embattled in the fights of their own amusement to make note of whether their host shall meet victory. <br/><br/>Some in the camp had dug a deep pit and filled it half with sand. A fence had been crafted around it, where hundreds of soldiers loomed. Catching a glimpse through the thin crack that had momentarily appeared between two sellswords, Tyrion gained an understanding of what had drawn their attention. He saw a bloody lion chained to a post, facing a pack of ravenous hounds. Three corpses already lay beneath its claws, but the hounds still pressed forward together. The sun lit the blood that shone on the lion's mane. A distant dragon screeched, and they removed their glares for an instant. Then, they remembered their true foe, and the hounds snarled. The lion roared in response. The men watching were hooting, shouting their encouragement and their lust for blood.<br/><br/>"<em>They shouldn't have been left behind</em>," he thought," <em>When they have half a nose left, let them love blood again </em>." <br/><br/>A group of young men turned and waved a the boy leading Tyrion. They all wore distinct patterned armour wrought with intricate designs from flowers to beasts. Their mail were arranged in scales that formed a cuirass, under of which Tyrion could see boiled leather. Some bore square shields, the sigils of their masters carved unto the wood.<br/><br/>His captor smiled, and waved back at his fiends, answering in a tongue that Tyrion did not know. He spoke High Valyrian to Tyrion, but his home tongue was foreign to him. The New Ghiscari dialect of Valyrian bore the least semblance to High Valyrian amongst its bastards, for they kept to the Ghiscari manner. The nobles spoke in the more flowery speech of the old dragonlords, while the common men conversed in a more vulgar tongue of the local dialect.<br/><br/>They came at last to a great gold pavilion grander than all the others. Thick drapings covered the roof to shield the occupants from the Meereenese sun, its four sides open to the passage of messengers and servants. Four pillars supported the the wooden framework that formed the ceiling, their stone white marble. He saw that the masters had also laid the smooth ground with marble that showed their magnificence and opulence. A dozen banners lined the side of the pavilion from which Tyrion was about to enter, and dozens more lay blazing at its flanks. Above them all, on a great wooden pole, rose a shining Harpy carved of gold. Its eyes watched the distant dust rise, and its poised to fly. He gazed at the gold in a trance, and his eyes were blinded by a white glare that the Harpy wrested from the light of the sun.<br/><br/>A banquet was set within the pavilion. The masters erected one long table in which they sat and feasted. He saw the glimmering robes of the New Ghiscari masters, but also the shimmering mail of sellsword captains that had been also invited to the feast.<br/><br/>An old man with white hairs and wrinkled skin sat at the table's head, his head bowed as he exchanged words with the master to his right. His shoulders seemed to sag under the weight of his mail, and his winged helm lay abandoned by his empty plate. The man he spoke to was young and dark-haired, his nose angular and his brows bushy. His face was adorned with a thinly cropped beard, and he looked to be around thirty years of age. When he creased his brows, the black hair came together to form a single dark line. His tone was clearly agitated, for his cheeks pulsed as his thin lips formed phrase after phrase. The old man closed his eyes, shaking his head. The man to the old man'[s left offered a word, but the commander silenced him with a glare and a curt command.<br/><br/>Tyrion saw that three chairs were empty, their occupants beyond the pavilion's shade. The figures conversed tightly together, pointing at the pinpricks of dust in the distance. They stood near the sheer cliff that plunged into a hundred feet drop. The sun burned behind them, and their shadows were short. Tyrion could scarcely see his own, and it barely cast beyond his own feet. The grass that he trod beneath his feet could not be seen beyond the cliff. There was only harsh deserts that greeted the city and the beach. Nothing stirred in the far distance, for now the sand blended the distant light of the land and yellow sun. He saw the high walls of Meereen, but the sands blended them in to the landscape as well. The lands between the city and the Yunkish camp lay as stark as the winter wasteland beyond the Wall.<br/><br/>"<em>There were at least trees there</em>," Tyrion thought,"<em>The Haunted Forest was black against the snowy white. This land is only yellow. No, not yellow. Gold. </em>" He wondered if he should consider pissing off this cliff if he and Ser Jorah were to survive the first minutes with their throats intact. The figures near the cliff clearly had no intention of doing so, for their attention was demanded to more striking matters, such as the soon-to-be expanse of blood. <br/><br/>Though the banquet was rich, most of it lay untouched, the masters choosing instead to anxiously address each other in hushed voices. It seemed that the warm winds kept the food from turning cold despite the indifference of the feasters.<br/><br/>Golden plates bore the cuisine that was alike to that of a Westerosi king's. Of some, Tyrion thought that the delights would not appear even upon Joffrey's table.<br/><br/>Goblets of wine lay beside each master. Despite ignoring the food, they took sips of their drinks regularly. Slaves were beckoned to refill their masters' cups, and it seemed that their tones grew ever more agitated.<br/><br/>There were still men unheeding of the coming battle, and ate to their heart's delight. Each man had a silver cup from which they spooned salt to spill over their food. They reached for the courses, but their eyes would timely study the horizon as well. <br/><br/>The main course was a grand serving of roast duck, half-eaten by those who had the stomach. It was caught upstream the Skahazadan, where he read that reeds and marshes adorned the shores of the river. One boiled brown wing still remained, and its scent drifted into the holes where Tyrion's nose used to be. The dish was decorated by slices of cheese and lettuce, though he could also see the dark glitter of spices that came from the east lands. Even when Tyrion was Hand, he had rarely been able to sample such in his meals. Only lords could afford the exquisite eastern commodity, and the War of the Five Kings had made it near impossible to attain. Here, perhaps, it was as common as bread and wheat. <br/><br/>He approached closer, and the scent of the duck faded to reveal an air of garlic. Two dishes decorated the flanks of the main dish. One bore rolls of spinach dipped in a thick sauce which he did not know the name. The other was the cooked remnants of chicken that had been largely snatched by the few that ate, its taste sweetened by the honey that aided the taste of the spice. <br/><br/>Masters wiped their mouths with white handkerchiefs, and carved their fare with silver knives. <br/><br/>Two guards dressed in shining golden scales guarded the entrance of the pavilion. They bore winged designs on their helms, and wore golden cloaks.<br/><br/>"<em>Are these their white cloaks?" </em>Tyrion wondered,"<em>Gold would not be the colour that I would choose. If I were to form my guard, I would rather that they not see the colour of their cloaks as the base of their honour. It was not only the cloaks of the City Watch that led King's Landing to call them by that name </em>.'<br/><br/>As Tyrion and his captor made to enter the pavilion, the guards crossed their spears to refuse passage. Some of the masters looked curiously to meet his gaze. The boy told a guard a message in New Ghiscari Valyrian, and the guard gave a nod.<br/><br/>He withdrew his spear to go over to the old man, and Tyrion saw the commander nod in approval. They were soon let into the pavilion, and Tyrion was led by his captor to meet his justice.<br/><br/>"I had thought," the old man said as the boy approached,"Young Calysus, that you had been assigned to guard the Sheperd's Way, and that your shift would not end until noon. Have you forgotten your duty?"<br/><br/>The boy answered quickly and plainly,"You also ordered, great-uncle, that I should come to you should any man chance upon the remote paths. I gave command of those rocks to my lieutenant. They are in good hands. I assure you of that. I did not neglect my duty." <br/><br/>The old man's face darkened,"Do not call me great-uncle, boy. Call me Lord Commander. In this host, by the Grace of His Eminence Lord Magistrate Allius Rongolus, you are not my brother's son's son. You are a soldier, and I am your commander. You swore on your honour as a New Ghiscari noble to follow any orders given when you begged to be allowed into this host. If you cannot follow the simplest of commands, then I would have left you with your mother and sisters. Tell me, why have you abandoned your duty?"<br/><br/>Tyrion saw the boy's eyes widen in fear,"Yes, Lord Commander."<br/><br/>"Good, young man," the commander continued,"Tell me why you have come." <br/><br/>The boy turned to Tyrion, and gestured,"I feared, Lord Commander, that you had given me a menial task, and that I would sit out this war without winning any glory. But this morning, these two men walked into my trap. After lengthy questioning, I have concluded that this is a Yunkish master, and the burly man is his slave guard. That is why I have brought them before you, as you ordered any noble captured would be treated so."<br/><br/>Some of the men at the far end had stood to see the boy's prize. All caught a glimpse of the dwarf, and all laughed. Some with were bellowing with laughter, rolling backwards in their chairs. The old man's eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips. The young man's face clenched in embarrassment, and his face turned a crimson shade. <br/><br/>They were laughing at Tyrion also, but he smiled. The young master would never had known what a dwarf had to endure his whole life.<br/><br/>"<em>I have long since embraced that I am a dwarf </em>," he thought,"<em>Could you embrace that you are a fool?"</em><br/><br/>A single figure rose from the opposite end of the table and took quick long steps towards the boy. This was a much taller man, a griffin brooch pinning his mahogany cloak to his shoulders. He was much older, too, as he had already grown a full beard, though his face was still smooth and brown.<br/><br/>He grabbed the boy's shoulder,"Caly. I know you hunger for glory and honour. I, your brother, have known that once. Our father and our valiant grandfather who was Lord Magistrate twice, have known that once, and were as rash as you are. I had been rash, and tried to rush into every war as if it were a game. This is not a game. Our father was a fool to be moved by your words. He should have never sent you to accompany our host. An unlearned boy has no place here. A host is only as strong as its law and efficiency. It is only as strong as how willing its members are to share truth and honesty, to cooperate in a suitable manner. Please do not shame our family any further with your follies. Please heed my advice. Check this impulse, and return to our father's Pyramid in our golden city. This is a war too great for green boys. You will learn your skills as I once did, fighting in lesser battles. Safer wars. You need not seek to prove your worth here. Lord Elisus departs our host on the morrow to report the tidings of our war to New Ghis. I can speak to him, and find you a place on his ship. Please heed my words, and go home."<br/><br/>The boy cast his eyes downwards, but raised it soon after with renewed defiance.<br/><br/>"I tell only the truth," he spat,"This is not the fantasy of a child seeking to capture a lord."<br/><br/>"Then who is it?" a sellsword captain bellowed between fitful guffaws,"This is no Yunkish master. More a Yunkish fool."<br/><br/>Tyrion decided that he should relieve the boy of his torment. After all, he had been a gentle captor.<br/><br/>"I'll be careful on who you name a fool, my captain," Tyrion responded,"A master has a long memory, and a Yunkish one the most."<br/><br/>The sellsword made to respond in kind, but the old man held up a silencing hand,"You are no Yunkish. They care too much of their grace and dignity to tolerate a dwarf in their midst. Children born stunted as you would be tossed by their mothers off the tips of their Pyramids to preserve the honour of their families. But you are a lord, that much is clear, or once was. It would take no less to have the young man believe that you are a master. Tell us the truth, dwarf, of who you are, and we may spare your neck."<br/><br/>Tyrion laughed inside. He hoped that the New Ghiscari masters had ears as polished as the Westerosi lords to bear the burden of a speech worthy of a lord.<br/><br/>"I must first apologize," Tyrion began,"for the minor deception that I afforded the strapping young lord. I was to my greatest displeasure to dispense falsehoods from my tongue, for I had judged that he was a man of honour and valour. I must speak the truth that New Ghis raises its princes to be the greatest of quality, not only fair in tongue and face, but also not lacking in the disciplines of words and war. We spoke at length of the matters of you golden camp, and I had seen that his wit is uncommon. I have foreseen that he will make a great warrior as he wishes, if he has not the chance to serve in your city's governance. I fear that you have only leashed the deeds he may accomplish if you forbid him the chance to prove his worth. It would not do for a boy to not taste war's flavour but relish in its delights. There are much worse princes in my home, pampered from birth by their loving mothers but shielded by their noble name. They hunger for battle, yet are unblooded and know little of the way of man's beast. I trust that this young man would make a finer captain of men than perhaps even his great-uncle when he wears a white beard. Though he was of fine quality, I would still fear an unknown heart. A fair guise may hide foul intentions. I feared to bequeath the truth to a man that I did not know. But now I shall."<br/><br/>"It is true that I am no Yunkai'i," he continued, surveying the eyes of all the masters that had fallen silent,"In truth, I was never of this land. My home lies beyond the Narrow Sea, beyond the rocky shores of Essos. I am of the blood of the Westerosi, and in my blood flows flowers and steel. I am Tyrion of the House Lannister, Lord of the West. You may have heard my name in the rumours that have breached the east. I have come to serve the dragon, so that she may depart Slaver's Bay and win her rightful throne in the Seven Kingdoms. There is only one mighty host that I would think to plead aid to my cause. I have come to the New Ghiscari, and received quite an ignominious welcome. But I shall forget it, for my mission is far more important. Ser Barristan's force lies outside the city, to engage the Yunkish. The city is open for a ready master to claim. If you secure the city, and make her realm in peace, I may be able to convince the dragon queen to look her eyes west, and abandon this folly. I need to meet the dragon queen at a city of peace, and I ask your aid."<br/><br/>"Well damned me," the same sellsword captain spoke,"if he truly a lord. I would not think that anyone lesser could speak those flowery words. How many dwarven nobles are there?"<br/><br/>"Only one, I believe," a black bearded master said," He was one of the sons of their great houses. I heard he killed his father and his nephew, and fled his home. That man is named Tyrion Lannister."<br/><br/>"You are dragon men?" the old men asked.<br/><br/>"Yes," Tyrion spoke through gritted teeth,"but we need not be your foes. It is inevitable that she would need to depart the Bay to claim her rightful throne. She would leave its governance to the masters that aided her the most, and helped her make peace. You cannot slay a dragon, but you can befriend it. Let it leave your lands to your rule."<br/><br/>The old man studied him carefully as his father once did, and Tyrion felt a shiver crawl down his spine.<br/><br/>A man in faded blue robes spoke in agreement with Tyrion's words,"Lord Commander. The dwarf's words ring true. We have this chance, and we may storm the city walls while it is still lightly defended. We may claim Meereen for our own, and all its gold as well. The Yunkish have proved that they could not be trusted to divide our compensation. Lord Rongolus's position in the city already hangs at a thread. Last we heard, Lord Antigonius has been gaining support in the Noble Council after a long siege without fruit. He had refused our preparation for war, and it was only at Lord Rongolus's urging as Lord Magistrate could we have commenced our campaign. We cannot return to New Ghis empty-handed. We have spent too much on this war, from raising our legions, raising provisions, and raising sellswords. It cannot be used by Antigonius to say that our warmongering brought only bankruptcy to New Ghis, and was all for naught. If we were to return empty-handed, then Lord Rongolus would surely lose the Noble Council vote next year, and our heads would be sitting on pikes soon after. Our families have already declared our support, and we may lose all if we fail."<br/><br/>"The Prince has given his word," the old man replied,"Do not worry. We will have our gold. He will know better than to risk the wrath of the only men that shield his place beside that fickle tattered sellsword. Master Anlanq is with him, so he will not have any traitorous ideas."<br/><br/>"He's a Westerosi," the blue-cloaked man replied,"Their word is not to be trusted. They passed an hour ago, and took two thousand of our own with him. What is to say that he did not sway greedy Anlanq with promises of gold. Even now, that white flag has not been shown, and all our scouts sent have never returned. Could he have joined with the Yunkish, and seeks to destroy us? This man is Westerosi too, and not to be trusted. I say we snip off that grotesque head of his, and storm the city in our own name."<br/><br/>"<em>The Prince</em>," Tyrion wondered,"<em>Is this the spider I seek? He's a Westerosi. That is for certain. I have never seen such a bold spider before. No, the only spiders that dare to call themselves Prince are lords. This is a Westerosi lord, and I need see what he gives to the dragon queen. Why else would a Westerosi come afar to Meereen, if not to serve a Targaryen? I am too late for this game</em>."<br/><br/>"<em>What lord styles himself a Prince</em>," he thought, realizing the identity of this lord,"<em>Martell</em>."<br/><br/>"Ser Barristan has not yet marched," the old man said," He would be a fool to try and storm the walls now. If he seeks to betray us, then he will soon find that he has no men to hold the walls, and the Meereenese have proved to be the bane of conquerors. Even if Lord Anlanq could be swayed, he cannot convince the whole host to abandon their home. We wait until the time is right. The Yunkish will send another messenger, calling for our aid. We will return with the same reply. We are not ready. They cannot risk a march if we do not march as well. We wait. When Ser Barristan meets the Drunken Conqueror, we strike. We wait until one takes the other down, and we take the victor. Meereen will open its gates for us, and we will have our gold. Once the Prince has his whore, we shall have our gold that is our rightful compensation. Lord Antigonius cannot utter a word if we have victory. We shall leave on friendly terms with the Meereenese, as we will be seen as the saviors of their city. Yunkai will never be able to raise another sizable host in months. In the lands of the Bay, we will emerge the true power. Astapor is ash. Yunkai is burning. Meereen is a half-burnt shamble that could fall at any wind. Only we shall have the gold and the city to remake the trade in the Bay. New Ghis shall rise, and we shall by the Bay's master once more. Though this farce of this dragon whore was an unpleasant debacle, it shall make us great in the end. Sometimes, only a storm can remake an old world."<br/><br/>He stroked his white beard, and chuckled,"As to our guest, I have something in mind. Your tongue and bravery I give you, Lord Lannister. There are no craven kingslayers."<br/><br/>"<em>If he waits to enter the city</em>," Tyrion thought,"<em>This Prince will strength his roots into it, and he will receive the favour of the dragon queen when she returns</em>."<br/><br/>"There has been a recent war in our lands," Tyrion spoke,"a war of five kings.The Martells, the Princes of Dorne, never took a side. They sat out the war, until a victor emerged."<br/><br/>A guard interrupted them,"Lord Commander. A Yunkish envoy has arrived from the high road. He wished that you would grant him an audience."<br/><br/>The old man nodded,"I shall grant it. Please escort Lord Lannister aside."<br/><br/>Tyrion found himself led to the side, and a glamorous warrior entered the pavilion. He wore a high-plumed helm sporting carvings of vipers. A reeking scent of perfume accompanied the warrior as he entered the pavilion. He was of a muscular build, and wore a haughty smirk.<br/><br/>He strode arrogantly before the old man,"Lord Commander. I come at you with an urgent order from the supreme commander. Our scouts have reported that Ser Barristan has marched to engage our host. We demand that your forces be prepared, to aid us in our struggle. You placed your men under our command, and we have allowed you time aplenty. Serve your command as you are bid."<br/><br/>The old man did not wince at his barbs, but rose. He grasped his hand. Tyrion saw some of the masters wrinkle their noses in disgust.<br/><br/>"My friend," the Lord Commander said,"Our forces have been assembled. I was about to send a messenger to report to Lord Morghaz. We shall join your host in battle, and we shall win victory over the dragon queen."<br/><br/>The perfumed warrior nodded,"Then I shall beg your leave, my lord. We shall greet you on the field of battle."<br/><br/>The Lord Commander nodded also, smiling warmly," I grant it. I trust it you have your command to attend to. Farewell."<br/><br/>"Farewell," was the curt response. The Yunkish warrior let go of the Lord Commander, turned, and left the pavilion.<br/><br/>As soon as his shadow departed the vision of the masters, the Lord Commander turned to Tyrion and Ser Jorah.<br/><br/>His smile died,"Cut their ropes."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. QUENTYN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"<em>A flame that could match her own</em>," Quentyn thought,"<em>What can match dragonfire?" </em></p><p>He knew the answer, and the winds carried its service. He gazed to the sky, closing his eyes to its bright glare. His face soaked in the calming heat of the heaven's flame.</p><p>"<em>The flame of the sun</em>," he thought,"<em>The flame of the Martell banners. The flame that would equal dragonfire, if its caster was a true sun</em>."</p><p>"<em>Not a mummer's</em>," he grimaced,"<em>A mummer gives only false light. A dragon loves not what its eyes can see, but what scorches its scales</em>."</p><p>"<em>But what of men?'"</em>Quentyn thought again in wonder,"<em>The Valyrians have dragon's blood, but they are still of flesh and bone. They are still men, in the end</em>."</p><p>The dragon was a queen, and she looks with her eyes and tastes with her breath. Quentyn Martell never fell. The man who stood by his deathbed died to take his brother's place.</p><p>No man would see his own name in the annals of history, only the name of his brother. No man would ever know that the courageous Prince fell in a foreign land, for he shall return in a glory surpassing that of Nymeria. Every singer will sing the name of Quentyn Martell, for as all men knew, he lived to rule.</p><p>The Green Grace knew the truth. He did not yet know if her words were a threat or a warning, but he was not of the strength to challenge her. </p><p>His eyes sought the city below, and opened its lids to the chaos of his conquest. Ashes rose from still-burning pyres that were hastily erected to dispose of the corpses dead by both the mare and the sword. White cloaks marched the streets, aided by men in gold, but they would timely be attacked by remnants of the Shavepate's men.</p><p>"<em>They do not know</em>," he thought as he sighed,"<em>That is all that matters. The brightness of my flame has blinded them, and as they grope for their eyes, men do not sense that this sun would never give them heat. His warmth is only for his dragon prize</em>."</p><p>A screech suddenly disturbed his thoughts, and his gaze found the cream-coloured beast that roamed the skies above the city. He had watched it for near an hour since he returned, though it paid him litter heed. It soared at its own leisure above the ruin that was its mother's city. </p><p>It nonchalantly caught Quentyn unawares in its hypnotic gaze, and he felt now strangely drawn to the beast. He gazed at the deep pits of darkness that were its eyes, and felt his mind light and free of worries. </p><p>He was violently pushed back by a wall of iron, and he stumbled back a half step. His sense came back to him, and a tingling crept down his neck. </p><p>The dragon altered its course.</p><p>It came towards Quentyn, its wings beating rapidly in fury. In the abyss of its open maw, he could see a distant pinprick of red. He felt a slight breeze of warmer wind. The warm air grew warmer still, but his spine grew colder. His muscles stiffened, and his eyes could not blink.</p><p>Cold ran in torrents down his spine, and he could faintly feel his hands grip the stones until they felt blood. </p><p>As he finally mastered the strength to close his eyes, and waited for the flame. He said a quick silent prayer to the Stranger. </p><p>"<em>It is justice </em>," he thought, and he saw in the darkness the brown eyes close in peace.</p><p>But the warm glow of the sun never changed to the crimson glare of death. He heard a harsh whistle overhead, and the dragon passed without dispensing its curse of judgement.</p><p>The brown eyes opened suddenly in anger, consuming his mind with fury, as they knew that Quentyn was not yet burnt. The ghost was restless, and it did not know its vengeance.</p><p>"<em>She will see it inevitably, fifty years from now</em>," Quentyn thought,"<em>when I have made the realm's peace at the dragon queen's side, I shall accept what doom the Father then passes for my crimes. It will be just, but I shall never regret what I did, even as I bathe in the fires of what I escaped this day. It was my duty, and the peace of the realm is beyond my own wants and conscience. </em>"</p><p>He opened his eyes to the eerie silence of the dragon's wake. Sense began to seize his mind again, and Quentyn started to hear the faint rasping of breaths. </p><p>He only now gathered his own, his lungs gasping for the air that was long denied them. His chest began to heave with small ragged gasps. </p><p>Heedless of their torment, heavy steps began to drum the silence behind them. Quentyn turned to see his cousin marching to him. Ser Archibald acted as the Captain of the Great Pyramid's garrison, as he was one of the only men that Quentyn could trust in the city. In his absence, his cousin would manage the military affairs.</p><p>"<em>He would also receive the missives from those that seek the Great Pyramid's master</em>," Quentyn thought.</p><p>"Ser Archibald Yronwood," his herald declared,"Second Marshal of the Queen's Men, Castellan of the Great Pyramid, Warden of the Stone Gate, and Great Protector of the Sands."</p><p>His cousin had requested that last title, and Quentyn had grudgingly granted it. Arch was a head taller than him, and twice as wide, looming above Quentyn with imposing strength.</p><p>He came before Quentyn, and knelt,"My Prince."</p><p>"Ser Archibald," he responded,"Arise."</p><p>Arch rose, his meek round eyes meeting Quentyn's. It seemed that the Pyramid quavered as he stood. The sun shone in the south in its noon glory, and even his cousin's giant form was set in Quentyn's shadow.</p><p>"My prince," Arch said,"We've received a messenger from King Hizdahr and the Meereenese nobles. The council has been arranged, and they ask for your attendance."</p><p>"Very well, Ser Archibald," he replied," You may return to your duty."</p><p>As Arch departed the balcony, Quentyn turned his eyes again upon the city. He gazed ever farther, past the smoke-strewn streets to the mounds of dust that rose as Ser Barristan gave battle. A winged beast soared over Slaver's Bay above the naval battle. Their battle lines had parted to reform, and he saw the green beast torch one of the mightier ironborn galleys that had erupted in flame.</p><p>"<em>A mishandled cookfire</em>," he wondered,"<em>or Qartheen spies?" </em>It was ill-timed, for a flame drew another flame, so even if they could manage the first, they would burn to the second.</p><p>The New Ghiscari rose upon the high hills, ready to claim victory from whoever won the distant battle.</p><p>"<em>They are all my foes</em>," Quentyn thought,"<em>All the men that stand between me and the dragon queen. Even her beasts dismiss me no more than a careless toy. They see a boy from the mountains, a tool to be used. But it was not without reason that my father chose me for this duty. I will prove them all wrong. I will be the flame that can match the dragon queen's own</em>."</p><p>"<em>Will you?" </em> another voice crawled into his mind," <em> Murderer. Butcher. King. Why yes, you will be her mate</em>."</p><p>"My prince?" Ser Gerris asked,"What of the invitation?"</p><p>"I consent," he replied,"Prepare my escort. When you have gathered them, then return to report to me. Until them, leave me. All of you."</p><p>His guards left at his command. As he heard their steps recede, Quentyn collapsed onto the stone parapet. He buried his face in his palms, and heated tremors ran through his skull. His eyes burned, but no tears emerged. He could only feel the great sun's flame burning him, trying to make him pure.</p><p>"<em>But it will not</em>," he thought,"<em>When I look back, I see a man that is not me</em>."</p><p>"<em>Father</em>," he prayed, to both the divine and mortal,"<em>Why have you cast this duty upon me? I only wished to serve Dorne, to make safe the millions of souls from the Red Mountains to the Narrow Sea. I wanted to be someone of worth in my life, not cursed to be the mundane tool in another's designs. I tried to make myself strong, fearing to fail. I feared any and all would make it so. If I did not solve a problem the Maester gave me, if I could not hold the regimen of my master-of-arms, I feared that I shall fall. If I let the sun grace my skin overlong, I feared that the gods would curse me. Those fears drove me. I swore on my honour as a man of my house to see this mission accomplished. I swore to all the gods, and my father as well. I swore to myself. But why is it that though I stand so high, I feel no better. Prince Quentyn is dead. I am dead. I feel no joy in victory. I was doomed either way. If I kept to my duty, I doom everyone. If I break it, I still doom everyone. Even if I do not feel the blood staining my skin, I would still feel that ceaseless fear. The fear that it is not enough. The fear that one misstep can make me fail, so I must make myself greater. More cunning. More ruthless. I did it for Dorne. I did it to be righteous. I did it for myself. I did it for the true Quentyn. But when I look back, I see no victory in my path. I have crossed from one fear to another. What am I to do with my future, Father? Shine your holy light upon my path. When I look back, I see only blood. What will I see when I look forward? Shall I see more blood. More ashes. Am I doomed and cursed? What makes a king? What makes a man?" </em></p><p>He looked back again, and saw the devil's tendrils crawling about his dark heart. In the dull emptiness behind his eyelids, through the sweaty discomfort of his palms, he saw two warm brown eyes.</p><p>"My Prince," Ser Gerris's voice cut through his gloom.</p><p>"That is not my name,"he whispered,"Call me by my true name. I am not Quentyn. I cannot shoulder this burden."</p><p>A sudden shake disrupted his trance, and he heard breath breathing harshly at his ear,"Focus, my prince. We are fortunate that the men did not hear. Take hold of your senses. You have to be Quentyn, for all our sakes."</p><p>The boy squeezed his eyes tight, until renewed determination filled his mind. He had come this far, for Dorne, and he must see it to the end. There is time to look to the past, but now he must look forward.</p><p>The man snapped out of his trance, and Quentyn grasped Ser Gerris's calloused hand,"Thank you, Ser Gerris. Is our men ready?"</p><p>"I have gathered our best to serve as your guard," Ser Gerris responded,"They are at your disposal."</p><p>Quentyn nodded. Ser Gerris made to continue, and hesitated.</p><p>"What is it?" Quentyn asked.</p><p>"It is the white graces that the priestess sent us. They wish to join us at the council."</p><p>"Impress upon them the dangers of travelling through these war torn streets," Quentyn said,"My guards shall do my best, but there are only so many men that they can shield. I am their chief priority. If they are violated and killed, their blood is not on my hands."</p><p>"Yes, my prince."</p><p>"Good, then let us depart."</p><p>He took one last look at the dying city, and left the sorrowful balcony above Meereen.</p><p>"<em>When summer comes</em>," he thought, remembering the old hymn the soldiers sang when they came back from the Trident. He had not understood it at the time, but as he grew, he knew their meaning.</p><p>"<em>When summer comes</em>," he thought,"</p><p>
  <em> When wars have been won. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> When the rose you mean to pluck picks another one. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your tears fall cold, on soils of sorrow. </em>
</p><p><em> Your tongue tastes bitter with the steel you mean to hold.</em>"</p><p>"<em>But when summer comes</em>," he remembered,"</p><p>
  <em> when fires burn bright, and lights the road into the homebound night.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> When souls find peace.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> When swords lay rusting. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You sheathe away the cruel cold man that you may be." </em>
</p><p>"<em>I am a soldier</em>," he thought,"<em>and summer has not yet come. Winter's shadow hangs about the land. I am the cruel cold man that I have to be</em>." He hoped that the other verses did not speak the truth as well.</p><p> </p><p>The council was preparing to begin without his attendance when he arrived. The golden cloaks of all the masters had made their place upon the grand table in the Court of the Stone King. Quentyn and his retinue had travelled half the city to arrive, careful to avoid the dangers that still lay upon the streets. </p><p>The council was held in King Hizdahr's ancestral Pyramid. The home of the House of zo Loraq was second only to the Great Pyramid where he had taken residence. The Court of the Stone King was the chamber where the zo Loraqs would receive their guests, named after the ancient hero who slew the Lord of Thunder and made fire his slave. He had made the Great Ghost tremble, and, fearing to fight him, made the plague that turned men to stone to cast him down. He laid hand on an infected man, and caught the disease, falling to it. It is said in the oldest crypts of Meereen, the Stone King still sits regally on his bronze throne. Half the houses in Meereen claimed descent from him, and House zo Loraq boasted that they were the progeny of the purest blood, the descendants of his most valiant first son. It is said that one day, when the skies fail and the Great Ghost comes again with the host of the dead to conquer the cities of men, a hero who was of his line will come again, and fight again under the banner of the Last Conqueror. The Last Conqueror was said to be the blood of the gods, and chosen by the Ghiscari divine to carry their will. The masters of Ghis, though bearing golden blood, could only hope to boast of a man that could serve to be this great hero's servant. He will be the right hand of the one to slay the night, and be the stone and steel to deal his justice. They shall bring the light, and battle the darkness in the final fight. They shall claim victory, and the Harpy and her children shall make the world anew, where all shall live in eternal bliss, free from the mar of the night. </p><p>The court was splendid, erected in the fashion of the Old Empire. Its doorways and columns were simple but vast, smooth but mighty. The ceiling of the court rose higher than Yronwood's gate, and sixteen crystal chandeliers hung from it. Columns decorated the sides of the chamber to support the ceiling. which were decorated by ribbons of gold and silver. The floor was polished marble, cleansed tirelessly to prepare for the arrival of King Hizdahr's guests. There was one balcony carved onto the edge of the Pyramid, where one could gaze outside and see the sprawling city and the hills beyond.</p><p>The Court of the Stone King was reserved for dinners and their like, but it could be altered to hold councils if the need arises. King Hizdahr wished to play host to Meereen's masters. Quentyn was grateful, for a council was desperately needed, and the great Pyramid could not host visitors without staining their cloaks in blood.</p><p>The grand council was made of about twenty men, all of them the noblest of Meereenese blood. King Hizdahr sat at its head in a robe of shining violet. A golden crown bearing a jeweled scepter glimmered upon his lender brow. His face was stern and tired, but retained its proud tilt. The seneschal Reznak mo Reznak sat upon the chair closest to King Hizdahr, his pointy beard misshapen and greasy. It was evident the King Hizdahr could not hide his disgust as the seneschal spoke intimately with him. Beside the seneschal sat the king's cousin, the pot bellied Merghaz zo Loraq, dressed in a fine silken toqar. He saw almost all the masters of Meereen that were of any worth. Ghazeen, Merreq, Hazkar, Pahl, Quazzar, and Zhak to name a few. Only one seat still remained empty.</p><p>All the cushioned seats along the flanks of the table had been taken, their masters sitting a motley of pride, pomposity , and laziness. Only the one at the end of the table, facing King Hizdahr, remained empty. It was of ornate make, but no cushion padded the hard wood. The message was as clear as day, as clear as the sunlight that shone through the open balcony.</p><p>King Hizdahr rose to greet his guest. He strode over in mincing strides, and embraced Quentyn in welcome.</p><p>"My prince," he spoke,"my dearest brother. What shadow has befallen you since we last met? Why do you look so in gloom?"</p><p>"Keeping the city," Quentyn said,"War is no light-hearted feast."</p><p>"I understand, my prince," Hizdahr responded,"I give the greetings of the Great Masters of Meereen, and welcome you to our council."</p><p>Quentyn smiled,"Master Hizdahr. No, pardon me. King Hizdahr. Your Radiance. I must give my apologies for being late. Our arranged time at noon had not come, so I did not think that the council would begin as of yet."</p><p>"My dearest brother," King Hizdahr replied,"You are not late. All the Great Masters have arrived early, for this council concerns the futures of Meereen. You need not worry of such small matters, for we have much greater grievances to attend to. It is no lie, however, that we have been waiting for your Highness, and we are glad that you have finally come. We can now begin."</p><p>He raised his arm in a sweeping motion,"Please take your seat."</p><p>Quentyn nodded,"After you, your Radiance."</p><p>King Hizdahr took his seat, and Quentyn his. His retinue stood behind him. He had with him Ser Gerris Drinkwater, Ser William Wells, and Maester Kedry, along with a host of his Windblown guard. The white graces also accompanied him. The wood was hard upon his bottom, but he directed his attention to the king sitting opposed to him. </p><p>King Hizdahr addressed his council,"Shall we begin?" </p><p>Master Quazzor was the first to speak, his arms trembling as he squeaked in a shaky voice. His beard was almost white, and his skin bore the lines of age. His eyes still held a youthful fury, brown and deep.</p><p>"Your Radiance," he spoke. </p><p>He turned to Quentyn,"Your Highness." </p><p>He turned his eyes to the Great Masters,"Noble Vices of Meereen. To begin, we hold this council to decide the future of Meereen. War lies upon the horizon, and the pale mare rides in the streets. If we make one misstep, this golden city will burn. To make matters right, we cannot be a band of squabbling children. There must be a hand to guide us through this darkness. Meereen needs a head to give it order. In the absence of the queen, we have raised King Hizdahr to be our king."</p><p>"Rightfully so," Merghaz zo Loraq interjected," The queen chose him to be her husband and her companion in rule."</p><p>Master Quazzar nodded slowly," Yes, and King Hizdahr would have ruled wisely in her name until she could have returned from exile. His sense of justice and strength far surpasses any one of us, yet he did not wish to take Meereen's power all onto his own, fearing to have the lash to become a tyrant.  Had he the time, His Radiance planned for the formation of a ruling council to trust the city's governance. This is the first matter that I must address. But before King Hizdahr could rule in a wise manner and make peace to Meereen with fair policies, he was overturned most unjustly by the queen's butchers, the Westerosi Barristan the Bold and Skahaz mo Kandaq. Before we may address the matter of the council, though, we need make certain that His Radiance's rule is secure, and this farce cannot be repeated. Are we certain that those opposed to King Hizdahr's just rule have been silenced?"</p><p>"You need not worry," Quentyn said,''I have cleansed the city of the snakes that infested the queen's councils. Those that remain are who I judge to be true of heart. The Shavepate is dead, and Strong Belwas has been slain by the Tattered Prince in single combat. The Brazen Beasts, or should I say Brazen Bandits now, have become brigands in the streets, not enough to form any sizable threat to King Hizdahr's rule. My men have secured the city, and control the gates and walls. Ser Barristan, the Widower, and Grey Worm are embattled with the Yunkish. If either emerges victorious, they shall be too weak to assail Meereen's walls. The New Ghiscari are also our loyal allies. Even if Ser Barristan should find victory, he will not find welcome in the queen's city. He is not worthy of the grace of Her Radiance Queen Daenerys, nor any that follow him. His Radiance's rule is secure.” </p><p>He ignored King Hizdahr's indifferent glance, and surveyed the questioning eyes of all the masters in the Court.</p><p>"The Shavepate is dead?" Master Zhak asked. He was of a plump build, with dark skin and darker hair. His eyes glinted with cunning malice, and he reclined lazily upon his chair,"How do we know for certain. Did any of your men slay him, as Tatters slew Belwas?"</p><p>"It was not my men," Quentyn said,"but his own. Two of his lieutenants surrendered to the Tattered Prince, and swore their swords to me. I hanged them both for treason. If they had simply abandoned their host and surrendered to mine, I would have spared their lives. But they sought to appease me through committing the greatest of disloyalty. which I cannot forgive. I spared many others that surrendered to me without gift, and many now adorn the ranks of the men under my command, but for these I could not. I cannot have my men see my law as just ink upon parchment. A man is no criminal because he is my enemy in war. But if he commits a crime to appease me; even if it is to my gain, he is." </p><p>He nodded to his Windblown per their arranged signal. One of the guards carried a leather satchel at his side. He was strongly built, his hair shining with the blue sheen of the Tyroshi. The brash man of the Free Cities was perhaps the most skilled of the number that Ser Gerris had picked. He withdrew a round lump of meat from the satchel.</p><p>The skin of Skakaz mo Kandaq's face had not yet rotted, his features still recognizable. There were still small bands of resistance throughout the city, but their main force had broke. Most had discarded their masks and honour, deserting their captain. The Shavepate had perhaps little more than a score of men when he was betrayed.</p><p>Gasps broke the air, but the majority only grinned silently in amusement.</p><p>"The city is yours, my masters," he spoke.</p><p>King Hizdahr only narrowed his eyes,"Prince Quentyn. It is not proper to bring a corpse into the sacred halls of my fathers. I would forgive this for your ignorance of our customs, but the Stone King's Court cannot be stained by the blood of traitors."</p><p>"Throw it into the streets," Master Pahl shouted," so that it may feed the dogs. Let a hound gnaw on bones fit for a hound." </p><p>The master was young and bold, his hair golden and his eyes blue as the sky. He was one of rarer blood in Meereen. Though many had his pale skin, few sported locks that shimmered like the light of the sun. </p><p>The Tyroshi reared his arm and hurled it out the open balcony. They watched it disappear, and Quentyn bit his inner lip. He did not give the sellsword his approval.</p><p>He pushed the rankles out of his mind,"But there is another matter that I shall need to speak on. The Tattered Prince and Master Anlanq are men of war, and know little of governing a city. Meereen is on the brink of anarchy following this battle. We shall need a city guard to keep the peace. Master Oznak zo Pahl was slain by Belwas, and the men that the queen appointed to serve as the watch have been revealed to be traitors. A new commander shall be needed to keep the peace. A secure city may not be a peaceful one, and His Radiance's rule would be thrown into certain question if the winds of rebellion are not quickly stifled. None under my banner can suit the role, so I ask your aid. Who may command a city guard, or form one, to keep Meereen's peace until we can make a solution to this crisis. Master Merghaz. You commanded the Brazen Beasts in King Hizdahr's name before Ser Barristan's treason. Are you willing to take this duty?"</p><p>Quentyn gained their attention, the head lying forgotten.</p><p>Merghaz zo Loraq spoke again,"The Prince's words ring true. We need a captain of the city guard. Prince Quentyn's men may hold the city, but sellswords are fickle, and I would trust the Second Sons over the New Ghiscari. We need a man who is skilled in these matters of peacekeeping, but the queen has crucified most of knowledge. Still, we have one amongst us who I say is best suited for this duty. I do not know of one new, but I do know that of old. Your Radiance should have appointed him instead of me to lead the Brazen Beasts, as I am a child compared to his valiance. Old Lord Hazkar has served Meereen loyally for sixty years. Though he is of tender age now, he was Captain of the City Guard for over three decades. There is no man better suited for this duty, and we cannot risk a man who is unlearned in these matters during these times of strife."</p><p>He turned to an elderly master,"I ask for your duty, Master Hazkar, though we are wrong to ask any more of your service. I plead for you to bear this duty for Meereen."</p><p>"We will need to reform our city guard," the old man responded, his beard all white,"I will take charge of this. These old bones are crooked now, but once they were the backbone of Meereen's streets. I can raise you a worthy watch again, if it is the last thing that I do for my city. I may need to borrow men from all your household guards until such time as the newer men that I will recruit can come into their own."</p><p>"It is granted," King Hizdahr said, The seneschal Reznak mo Reznak was scribbling furiously upon a scroll.</p><p>"I myself shall give four hundred men from the household guard of zo Loraq to serve at your bidding," he decreed,"Any master of a Pyramid greater than fifteen acres shall give no less than three hundred. Any from ten to fifteen acres shall give no less than two hundred. Those less than ten acres shall give no less than a hundred. Those unwilling or unable to give men shall pay a fine of five hundred Honors for every watchmen less than the commanded number. If they shall not serve Meereen in men, the city that was their mother, then they shall serve the city in gold."</p><p>He waited for Reznak mo Reznak to finish scribbling and give it to one of the seneschal's personal stewards.</p><p>"Wait," he stopped the steward, a brown-haired boy who sported a wisp of a mustache,"Do not leave us yet. We will still be here awhile, and there may be many more decrees."</p><p>"<em>They have men</em>," Quentyn thought,"<em>I was sorely mistaken. Are these men green swords, or trained killers? They never spoke of such grand household guards when the queen was upon her throne</em>."</p><p>"<em>The Sons of the Harpy</em>," he realized,"<em>Returning to rejoin their fathers and mothers</em>."</p><p>Quentyn laid back onto the wooden backrest, and handed the goblet laid before him to Ser Gerris. The knight took a sip, then gave it back to Quentyn. Satisfied, Quentyn began to drink the warm wine.</p><p>Master Quazzar raised another speech,"Now that the matter of threat to King Hizdahr's rule is settled, I say we move to our original concern. King Hizdahr has been planning to restore the ruling council to govern Meereen. Since threat against this sensible policy has largely abated, we may focus again on this matter. Have any master any man to nominate for this council? How may it be formed so as to serve Meereen the best."</p><p>"I propose that we restore the Octarchy of the Old Empire," Quentyn said,"positions held by eight men who ruled with absolute power in the Old Empire of Ghis. In the Old Empire, it served the Ghiscari well. Such strength to enforce their will is paramount in these times of crisis and instability. We need a strong hand to make Meereen right, and the common ruling council cannot serve that purpose. I know little of the laws of the Old Empire, but I do know that their glory hung about Slaver's Bay for centuries. Their ideas must surely have merit, and I know that a strong hand is essential for peace. This council of eight, of course, must consist of the most renowned nobles of Meereen in order for its word to have true power. A lion is nothing without a mighty head and mane. The head of this council must be of the greatest mettle. There is one man amongst you that is of this quality, the man that you chose to be your king. I nominate King Hizdahr to be the head of this new Octarchy. Do these ideas have merit?"</p><p>King Hizdahr did not say anything, but Master Quazzar applauded the idea,"I speak in favour. We need a power that is strong, but also shared between many men so as to prevent the tyranny of one. I also lend my support to King Hizdahr as its head. His blood is the blood of gold, and he has shown that he is a man of wisdom as well." The other masters chanted their agreement.</p><p>King Hizdahr did not smile, and gave Quentyn a cold glare. He quickly composed himself, and smiled a warm smile,"If it is all your will, then I shall take this mantle with the greatest reluctance. But I shall also need men of surpassing valour to aid me in this difficulty. Prince Quentyn is of valiant stock, and the commander of this city's peace. There cannot be a council without him."</p><p>"<em>We sit upon this wagon together, my Prince </em>," the king's eyes spoke through his courteous smile.</p><p>The council then deliberated on the remaining members of the Octarchy. Master Reznak, Master Pahl, Master Zhak, Master Ghazeen, Master Merreq, and Merghaz the king's cousin were chosen.. Master Quazzar's cheeks hung red with embarrassment as he put his own name forward to be met with laughter and jests. </p><p>The noon sun began its slow decline as the afternoon dragged on. Quentyn listened wholeheartedly as they addressed the various matters of making this new council and the technical matters of forming a new governance. His mind was bitterly exhausted, which was not aided by the heat that had climbed ever higher as the day drew on.</p><p>"Prince Quentyn," the elderly Master Hazkar ventured as the council drew to a close,"Forgive my curiosity, but I wish to know what is your plan should Ser Barristan return. It is a matter between you and your captains, but we should still like to know."</p><p>His voice was tired and slow as the climb of the Dornish summer. He saw the master's son pour him a drink, then bring it to his father's lips.</p><p>"<em>I have no doubt that the son</em>," Quentyn thought,"<em>waits patiently for a sickness to take his father. If none do for too long, and he grows impatient, then perhaps he shall act as the cold frost</em>." He knew that look, despite the son's kindness. It was the same sharp irritated glance that the Princess Arianne had given the Prince of Dorne during the Prince's most recent visits to the Boneway. </p><p>His goblet was empty, his mind cloudy and miffed by stifling warmth. He rose from his chair and strode to the balcony to breathe some cool air. He stumbled several times, but shook off the white grace that made to steady him.</p><p>The Stranger had not yet released his hold, for he saw battle still on the distant horizon. Great crowds had gathered in the streets, seemingly mindless of their fear of the pale mare. His men feared it too, for it rides the same on any man. The Windblown kept them back for the moment, yet they would inevitably be overwhelmed. He would have to trust in the strength of his council to make tame the city.</p><p>He extended his arm, pointing, and turned his head back.</p><p>"Forgive me," he spoke," This is Meereen now. Two years ago, it was gold. A year ago, it was copper. Now, it is rubble and stone. A great city has fallen, and I fear not to use the queen[s name in its ruin. I will not let that course proceed further. Ser Barristan may enter the city, but I promise you that he will not leave it again. I dare not reveal our plans for fear of the breach of our secrecy. But I shall assure you, that once this farce is done, the queen shall have wise counsel when she sails to Westeros, where she shall rule a realm in a better manner. When this farce is done, we shall leave Meereen in peace. Targaryen dragons will win a Targaryen throne. She shall abandon this needless strife, and return to her home where a hundred thousand banners shall greet her reign with the heads of the usurpers and their dogs. The queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not Slaver's Bay. When she takes her throne, I shall make her my queen."</p><p>"<em>And</em>," he thought to his fallen brother,"<em>give her the kiss that you never did</em>."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. SAMWELL</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sam had oft wished for the warm fires of his chambers when he had embraced his duty as the man of the Night's Watch. In the long nights on guard, with only the cold scaffold and a colder comrade to keep him company, he wished for the soft featherbed of Horn Hill. The only fire that he had found in those barren towers was Jon, before he became icy Lord Snow. When the night grew darkest, and death became the sheen of the sky, he had looked south, and wished for home. He had wished to leave them to their bitter hearts and bloody blades.<br/><br/>"<em>I lost that life</em>," Sam thought,"<em>at the price of my honour. I bought what I had sorely wished</em>." He felt more uneasy than he ever did in the far north, amidst a warm hearth and stifling company that he had not earned, wishing for the peace of his forsaken post.<br/><br/>The Quill and Tankard was full to the brim, as a travelling troupe of singers had come to Oldtown. There were Hightower guardsmen relieved of their duty, flaunting their white cloaks and making a rowdy scene. The Venturer’s Dock had closed an hour ere the hour of the lamb, and the saddened merchants had come in for the better part of the night. Common tradesmen were the most common guests. Those that were glad for warm relief after a long day earning coin filled the room Above all, there were the grey-cloaked apprentices of the Citadel, the grey-cloaked maesters. Whether one was an acolyte close to forging his final link, or a novice new to the scrolls, all spent at least one evening a fortnight to rest their minds on apple cider.<br/><br/>“<em>Maester Aemon wished to</em>,” Sam thought,”<em>He told me of his memories of the Citadel. The fondest were the ones where he would laugh with his friends at the Inn between the rivers. The Inn that stood for centuries before. Some say that it was as old as the Hightower. He felt most at peace here in the days of old, for amongst the merriment of the guests and the clink of the goblets, men forgot the sorrows of their lives. For once, men forgot the dragon in their midst</em>.” <br/><br/>There were other inns, of course, but most favoured the Quill and Tankard. The singers certainly did, and the innkeep was all too grateful. The inn drew all the more men for their service. It would be late into the night before the first guests would leave, and they bought drinks all the while. From the press of bodies that squeezed onto the few benches, the inn felt as warm as if it were still summer.<br/><br/>They had fallen silent now to hear the music of the song. Though he knew from their prior songs that all could sing, only two voices rose now. They were of a man and a woman, spinning a tale of love.<br/><br/>The woman’s voice was silken and laced with a joyful tune,<br/><br/>“<em>O King to me, love soft and fleet,<br/><br/>Dark hair that flows like summer seas,<br/><br/>And lips like chaff that come to me. </em>”<br/><br/>The man’s voice was deep and sombre, full of sadness and longing,<br/><br/>“<em>O maiden pure, your lips so sweet,<br/><br/>but this man so fine I cannot be,<br/><br/>a soldier's bed is dust and leaves</em>.”<br/><br/>The woman sang a verse, and the man a second. Their voices were fair, but Sam gave them little heed. He could scarce hear them in his thoughts. At Horn Hill, his mother and sister had enjoyed the songs of the singers that had timely chanced upon their halls. Sam had found himself a book to read, while the tunes soothed the words into his mind. He now turned his ears to it, for there was naught else to listen. His companions had all let their gazes fall upon the troupe.<br/><br/>“<em>O knight of songs, you cannot see,<br/><br/>How moons may pass for maids that bleed,<br/><br/>Years and lives for this widow’s fee.<br/><br/><br/><br/>O fairest queen, my love is keen,<br/><br/>though foes and kin have called my feet,<br/><br/>to the man I swore my lord and king.<br/><br/><br/><br/>O Glory’s slave, the deeds you meet,<br/><br/>So great and fell that death you seek.<br/><br/>What chance of doom if we marry?<br/><br/><br/><br/>O suitor’s dream, this cannot be,<br/><br/>To my past of sin I swore my greed, <br/><br/>An oath of honour and duty</em>.”<br/><br/>“<em>His voice is as fair as Dareon</em>,” Sam thought. He understood now what his brother had felt. Sam was as much a traitor as he was. The lure of the south, that made obsolete any kinship or duty. The lure of love, and a woman’s lips. He wondered how his brother had fared in Braavos. Was he still singing in the lap of the Sailor’s Wife, laughing merrily as he did in the Happy House? Or did he seek more paying ventures, and left there to journey to more pleasing places. Could he have sung by the Court of the Thousand Scales, entertaining the Sealord himself? Or did he go to Pentos, or Lys, and sought employment from their Magisters? Could he have joined a ship to return to Westeros, his home, with the many coins that had come by his songs? Sam thought not, for Lord Mathis was at court. But still, wherever a singer went, a skilled voice would find luck. Sam knew his own fate. A maester had only one castle to live and die. That was only if they did not remember the old law.<br/><br/>Sam did not hear the rest of the song, and the sorrowful twiddling of the harp faded beyond the rapid gushing of the Honeywine. The applause that erupted from the tavern awakened him to the song’s end. Sam’s hands yearned together in appreciation of the melody, though they were already raw from the many performances that the bards drew that evening. This bit of gratitude was the least he could afford the entertainment, for he had none else to give. Other patrons, those with coppers to spare, had showered the singers in a blaze of commission. He had nothing to give, for the little gold granted by the Citadel could scarcely last for a wagon to Horn Hill. He had only enough for one journey.<br/><br/>“<em>I would need gold to buy another journey</em>,” he thought,”<em>My father’s gold. He gives it only with his blessing</em>.” Sam still had his black cloak, though, not having donned his grey one. It would serve perhaps one last purpose, to show that he had won valour at the Wall. He was one of the Lord Commander’s most trusted men, relied upon to bear the duty of escorting the old maester to Oldtown. The Night’s Watch had served to make Sam a warrior and a man. That was the story that he needed to sell. Sam had never told a lie so false and so bold. He knew that he could never serve any house in the Reach, at least until his brother came unto Horn Hill.<br/><br/>“<em>Are you watching me, father?” </em>he thought,” <em>When the impulse passed, it was only then when I realized what had befallen my senses. I cannot change what has been spoken, nor will I betray the trust of the maesters. I betrayed my honor, but that is past, and I must look further. You once told that Tarly men make their own futures, with their will and their steel. Forgive me, for I will do what you have taught. I will be a better man, making what I can from my follies. For you. For Gilly. For my son. For Lord Snow</em>.” <br/><br/>He did not forsake his vows. He would return to the Wall, but with hosts of the south. Sam will not forget Lord Snow, or Jon, but he will do his duty first, to the maesters and to serve. He would make the southern lords see sense, the north always in his heart. Sam will not abandon his cloak truthfully, only tuck it away, so that he may serve it better in the south. It was not for the beds of the south that he stayed, but for the swords. His bed was ultimately dust and leaves, and he would return at last to the man he swore his lord and king.<br/><br/>He spied several silver stags amongst the rain of coppers that showered the singers. They made a fortune tonight, and deservedly so. <br/><br/>They made Sam think of Daeron with his sweet tongue. He had always garnered a sizable fellowship when he sang in the mess halls of Castle Black. Sam and his little band of friends had avoided his presence, keeping to their circle where they japed and moaned of who would patrol the ice atop the Wall that night. Sam had envied him, being of fame and fortune. Dareon then betrayed the Watch, and that made him feel better. Castle Black’s men loved him more than they ever saw him, and he faulted him all the more. Though he knew now that he could not fault him for that, for he was much the same. They were southern men, fit for a southern court. They were not Lord Snow. <br/><br/>He hoped that his friend could find his way in the court of Braavos. Sam supposed that he should not worry, for given Dareon’s aptness, he must have already charmed himself under a courtesan’s dress.<br/><br/>“<em>The Wall is not what we have to face</em>,” he thought,”<em>The horrors beyond it are not what we are bid to face. That is not my duty anymore. Mine is here</em>.”<br/><br/>A sip of apple cider cleared his mind. He had only come to realize that it was laced with wine, thought at this point he was beyond caring. <br/><br/>Sam had not originally wished to come from the Citadel in pursuit of pleasure and drinks, for he had neither the gold nor the time. He had been preparing to purchase supplies for their journey to Horn Hill, but Alleras invited him to join them at the Quill and Tankard. Prince Oberyn’s daughter had offered to pay both their fees, and he was not of any mind to refuse. Sam would make the best of the evening, in any case, for there was naught else to do but sit and drink. It was a welcome diversion from the tiring day.<br/><br/>Alleras had introduced Sam to her friends, other acolytes who were forging their chains. There was dour-faced Mollander, who was thickly built but had a gentle manner. However, his mood grew ever more sour throughout the night as he downed more goblets of wine. Alleras warned him that his friend had quite an affliction for it since his father died on the Blackwater. <br/><br/>Roone, Alleras’s other friend, was a heavyset boy with blond curls that ran over his brow. His cheeks and neck were plump, stretching the maester’s chain that hung about his neck. He had already forged a gold link, and he told that he was well on his way to earning an iron one. Roone had been the only one at their table who had dared to speak with Mollander in the past hour.<br/><br/>“Where is Armen?” another voice broke his thoughts,”He ought to have come by now. What of that pig boy? He always seemed to trail after your coattails.”<br/><br/>Leo Tyrell had joined them an hour past sunset, when they had become comfortable at their chosen table. A spot on his cloak was already stained a deeper shade, and he reeked of wine. Sam had entertained the thought of leaving when the noble took his seat at their table, but he seemed rather pleasant this day. The snide remarks still came, but they held less barbs. Sam opted to stay and savor his apple cider, occasionally answering a jape Tyrell spat at him.<br/><br/>“Armen is forging his silver link,” Alleras answered,”Ebrose lengthens his lectures to the hour of the wolf. He also has a scroll to deliver to the Seneschal’s Court on the morrow, and his quill had barely scratched half a page. He won’t be joining us tonight. As for Pate, he’s doing whatever Walgrave’s set him to. I have not an idea of what the old man wants of him.”<br/><br/>“Walgrave scarce has enough sense left to tell a pauper from a prince,” Tyrell reclined on his seat,”elsewise he’d be rid of the pig boy long ago. What does he have him do?”<br/><br/>“Tending to the gentle care of an old man,” Alleras responded balefully,”Managing the duties of the ravenry.”<br/><br/>Tyrell laughed,”I’d give him that the pig boy is the man to shovel raven shit. I shudder to think of when I would forge that link of black iron. Don’t you think that we maesters need only know how to send ravens to and from castles, not care for every vengeful bird’s leavings? Well, since he’s not here, I would have to make do with all of you. I’d miss Armen, though. He was half the reason that I would timely join your little band. The other half is you, Sphinx.”<br/><br/>Alleras sniggered, but her eyes narrowed in a viper’s glare. Before she could respond, a sharp voice grasped their attention.<br/><br/>“<em>When Good King Robert had ruled the land,<br/><br/>The peak of summer, a realm that prospered,<br/><br/>No war, nor foes could make their stand <br/><br/>To the crowned stag’s mighty hand.<br/><br/><br/><br/>But peace was ever a child’s dream,<br/><br/>Winter and sorrow will come and seize,<br/><br/>Lord Stark, the king’s most trusted friend,<br/><br/>Had a heart as black as a beast<br/><br/><br/><br/>The king made humble his crown and jewels,<br/><br/>To plead his friend to aid his rule<br/><br/>He knew not heart of hidden frost<br/><br/>That lay ‘neath the loyal gloss<br/><br/><br/><br/>At the halls of rights, the false lord showed<br/><br/>His hand of treason, his truest desire<br/><br/>To break the realm of peace and whole<br/><br/>The kind king slain of traitor’s ire.<br/><br/><br/><br/>True men rose of brightest fire<br/><br/>The kingdom’s prince, the righteous heir,<br/><br/>Who bore the strength of both his sires<br/><br/>To slay the wolf when none else dared<br/><br/><br/><br/>But his brood yet lived to make cruel war,<br/><br/>Conniving seductress, savage daughter,<br/><br/>A pup eager to draw his sword,<br/><br/>To unleash a hellhound’s roar<br/><br/><br/><br/>The king of shadows, king of storm,<br/><br/>Lord Stark’s cold son had laid his scorn,<br/><br/>Treasons new had made accords<br/><br/>When false king rose of falser swords<br/><br/><br/><br/>With kin and pack he raided south<br/><br/>To land of rivers, land of trouts,<br/><br/>His mouth was cracked so wide in glee<br/><br/>As pastures burned, his vengeance seen.<br/><br/><br/><br/>The lands saw war and torture filled<br/><br/>With cunning malice of northern banners,<br/><br/>That strewn the fields with bones that tilled<br/><br/>For the rise of a king that served.<br/><br/><br/><br/>The king then came with a warrior’s crown,<br/><br/>A lion king, a hero’s song.<br/><br/>To fight treasons many, trust friends so few,<br/><br/>Tell hearts from faces false and true.<br/><br/><br/><br/>Gentle Cersei, a widow found<br/><br/>Strength to crown her son’s blond brow<br/><br/>Who yet so young but stood his ground<br/><br/>And felt not fear of terror’s howl<br/><br/>The wolf was vanquished by the towers,<br/><br/>Traitors fallen, by traitors’ swords,<br/><br/>In light of heaven’s righteous hour,<br/><br/>False kings cowered as true king roared,<br/><br/><br/><br/>He broke his foes, took their strength,<br/><br/>A crownless corpse found breath from war<br/><br/>These lands from winter to its end,<br/><br/>Shall never see this like of lord.”</em><br/><br/>“Alas, Good King Joffrey,” Alleras said,”We mourn most tearfully in his memory. The greatest king this age has known, who made an end to this dreadful war.”<br/><br/>“Careful,” Tyrell lectured,”Tommen is our king. Lord Hightower would have your tongue if I were to tell him what you said.”<br/><br/>“Would he believe you, the pox-faced acolyte that was Highgarden’s leavings?” Alleras smirked.<br/><br/>“Do you not remember that you are a man of common birth, <em>Sphinx </em>, and I am still of noble blood?” Tyrell laughed heartily,”Fair or grotesque, a rose is still a rose. A Tyrell's word is as good as gold.”<br/><br/>“Quiet,” a voice snapped, silencing the chatter that had arisen after the end of the song. It had apparently annoyed the innkeeper, as he most likely felt it his obligation to keep the talk under a lid, enough so that men could hear the singers.<br/><br/>Sam turned to gaze at the innkeeper. Happyman Quicktongue he was called. He was always jolly, and had quick wit. One would not live to be an innkeep if he had not those qualities. He gave a girl whom he had beckoned over a small coin. In the bright firelight that lit the inn, Sam could see that it was golden. The serving girl rushed to the troupe of performers, and handed them the coin. The leading musician, a dark-haired man who played the harp, smiled. He pocketed it, muttering an audible response of gratitude.<br/><br/>He stood, hand resting upon the crest of his ornately carved instrument. It was quite possibly from Lorath, or perhaps Qohor, the dense forests there having produced the finest wood. The only animals whose fibres could make string of that kind were found in abundance there.<br/><br/>Sam had read about it once, in his favourite book as a child. It had been a gift his father had given him at his sixth nameday. At that time, his father had not yet condemned his pursuit of study, for even he noted that a martial man has to be learned as well. This was one of the few in the ever-shrinking pool of fond memories that made Sam remember that Randyll Tarly was still his father, despite his beatings and curses. Lord Tarly had then forced Sam, when he saw that his son did not at all practice with the master-at-arms, to hold a sword and shield. He had locked any book Sam had from his reach. Sam remembered asking his older sister desperately to keep his cherished book from his father’s grasp, as he feared that Lord Tarly meant to burn it. His sister agreed, then gave the book to their father at dinner.<br/><br/>The lead singer’s voice drew him back into the present. Sam could see the singer’s thumb drumming a beat upon the bottom of the harp’s crest. His fingers were long and callused.<br/><br/>“Good men and women of Oldtown,” he proclaimed,”We give our dearest thanks for all the faithful support you’ve lent us this evening. We have only the humblest of talent, and are truly delighted that it is to this vibrant inn’s liking. We had the greatest pleasure of being of service to you this evening. It is to my greatest chagrin to say this, but our time here is at an end. The next song will be our last. We have two songs prepared. Do you wish to hear of the Dragonknight’s Love, or perhaps a jollier tune, the Feast of Goldengrove.”<br/><br/>“Let’s put it to a vote, shall we,” he continued in a bright smile,”Those that wish for the Dragonknight’s Love, let’s hear your voice.” <br/><br/>A clamour of shouting and men slamming down their ale ruled the hall. For a moment, Sam’s old self crept within his mind, and he flinched in terror.<br/><br/>“And now, for the Feast of Goldengrove,” the man declared.<br/><br/>The bar devolved into anarchy, a cacophony of voices hooting. The slamming of ale was much louder than the sounds wishing for the previous song. Sam saw Leo Tyrell slam his empty cider goblet down in approval. Mollander and Roone shouted their wishes as well. Sam did not join in any of the chanting, nor did Alleras. The cacophony had briefly served to deter Sam from the inn, but Alleras insisted that he stay. He could not refuse her.<br/><br/>“It seems that we have a victor,” the singer observed, once the noise had largely died down. He gestured to his compatriots, and sat down himself, his hand ready on the strings. <br/><br/>The troupe consisted of a band of seven musicians. The Wandering Princes was the name that they made for themselves. Besides the fair-skinned man that they made for their leader, three other men and three women made up their number. The pair that had sung the last love song were entangled on the benches.The blond-haired woman dallied in the lap of a Dornishman. They soon broke free of each other, and took up their instruments, the man a lute, and a woman a flute. <br/><br/>“Ale,” came a call as sudden as a storm, which was soon echoed throughout the inn. Many of the men noted that their goblets were empty, and called for drinks. The serving girls moved to service their clients. Sam spied the lead singer sigh, and eye an unspoken word with the innkeeper.<br/><br/>“Would you like me to call a wench?” he heard Tyrell say. Sam turned to glance at the noble, who noticed and smirked,”What would you like, Slayer?”<br/><br/>“Do as you please,” Sam answered.<br/><br/>“If I were to be pleased,” Tyrell answered callously,”half this table would not be. I’d like maesters to be worthy of their links. Half of you would be expelled from the Citadel’s ranks if men of sense held charge in the Council of Archmaesters. Starting with that Dornishman, then you, Slayer, then Roone because I don’t like his pudgy accent. Our Drunken Knight can stay, though. I can tolerate his company at least.”<br/><br/>Sam did not try to argue, as he was much too tired. He was lucky that Tyrell did not press the matter further, as his eyes lingered upon a serving girl at a nearby table.<br/><br/>“Ahoy, wench,” he called, gesturing for her to come to their table. Sam saw her disentangling himself from another man who pulled her into his arms. Her smile was radiant and her eyes shone, the candlelight shimmering upon both her pitcher and the golden locks of her hair.<br/><br/>Since Sam was the closest, she addressed him first.<br/><br/>“What would you like for refreshment, m’lord?” she asked.<br/><br/>Sam was surprised that she would call him by such. That was his father’s title, not what he dared to hold.<br/><br/>He glanced at his goblet, and saw that it was nearly empty. Perhaps it was time that he should depart the tavern. The sound told him, however, that the party was at its peak, and it would appear insulting to leave. He did not wish to alienate the men of Oldtown, as he would have to stay here for several years.<br/><br/>“Uh… yes,” he stammered quickly, half mesmerized by her beauty,”But not ale. Apple cider. Ale is too strong for me.<br/><br/>“<em>Seven Hells</em>,” Sam thought,”<em>I ought not to be this nervous. It is not as though I have not been with a woman</em>.” It sobered him temporarily, noting the mocking expressions of the other acolytes at their table. <br/><br/>The serving girl’s eyes were warm as she nodded. She walked to the innkeeper's counter, avoiding the gropes of drunken men as she passed the other tables. She switched her pitchers, and sauntered back to Sam’s table. Sam tried not to follow the curve of her skirt, but found it impossible as she inched close to pour his drink. When she finished, she stood and waited, as if for something. Sam realized that she was waiting for coin, and glanced sharply at Alleras.<br/><br/>“It’s on me,” Alleras said as she fetched three coppers from her pocket to hand to the maid,”I invited him to join us tonight.” <br/><br/>She took the coin and said,”Would any of you maesters wish for refreshment?”<br/><br/>“Wine,” Leo Tyrell barked.<br/><br/>“The very same,” Mollander stated, fumbling with his cloak to retrieve his coins.<br/><br/>“Apple cider,” demanded Alleras, and so did Roone. The serving girl poured the two goblets whose owners asked for cider, collected the coin. She brushed her hip against Allera’s arm as she poured that drink. The maid then left to refetch the pitcher that contained wine.<br/><br/>Sam turned his eyes to the troupe that sat in the stage while the customers refilled their goblets. The performers were engaged in conversation, their voices too low amongst the uproar of the inn. A man told a jape, and the women near him laughed, tossing their hair in the air.<br/><br/>A squeal interrupted his focus, and Sm looked to see the source of the disturbance. He saw Mollander with his hand up the serving girl’s skirt, smiling broadly as she removed herself from his presence.<br/><br/>“Oh, not now,” she giggled,”Get a galleon, and I’m all yours.” She danced off, smirking and swaying her form in a luring manner. Sam unconsciously felt his eyes follow her steps. He heard a snigger.<br/><br/>“Do you want her, Slayer?” Tyrell’s voice was mocking and reeked of slime,”She’s still a maid. Her mother is also one of the wenches in the Quill and Tankard. The old wench has put it out that the first man to bring her a galleon would be able to taste her daughter’s maidenhood. I was of a mind to take this, for a galleon is nothing to a Tyrell. But there are cheaper whores out upon the Sapphire Lane that charge a few coppers. It would be a poor investment, and I wish not to cause a scandal that would trouble my father to come to Oldtown. I wished to give others a chance, but no man has claimed that prize yet. Could you bear this price?Tarly is one of the richest houses in the Reach. However, I suppose that Lord Randyll would not leave a fortune to a son that he abandoned to the Wall. If you had a galleon, the Sphinx need not pay for your drinks.”<br/><br/>Before Sam could respond in kind, a bell rung out over the chatter.<br/><br/>“Quiet,” the innkeeper called after many of the patrons halted their conversation,”Our Princes should like to perform.”<br/><br/>A whoop of excitement spread throughout the crowd, their blood boiling after a new round of wine. The voices in the tavern hallowed to a whisper, and Sam’s gaze was again drawn to the singing of the sole harp that began the melody. The voices of the lutes joined in after a sequence was played, and the flutes soon after in a chorus. <br/><br/>The inn fell into the enchantment of music, and the lead bard sang:<br/><br/><em>“There once was a battle long and strong<br/><br/>In the meadows of the Reach in the days of yore,<br/><br/>By the Ocean Road there merrily rung,<br/><br/>A motley of lamellar, helm, and sword.”</em><br/><br/>The man next to him sang:<br/><br/>“<em>This day was won by the tall Rowan,<br/><br/>His banner bore the golden trees.<br/><br/>The boars that sought to claim his land,<br/><br/>Dropped their tusks and ran to flee.”</em><br/><br/>Their voices roused in unison sang:<br/><br/>“<em>And then to cheer his victory,<br/><br/>In the eyes of his liege to mark his deeds,<br/><br/>By heralds three to spread the word,<br/><br/>Of the feast of peace held by groven-lord.”</em><br/><br/>A third man joined the chorus, and they sang:<br/><br/><em>“To the bright green hedges of Highgarden,<br/><br/>The dark abyss of huntsman’s wood,<br/><br/>The farms of apples summer-ripe,<br/><br/>And cloven Shields under ironman’s hood.”</em><br/><br/>The third man alone sang:<br/><br/><em>“Neither mountains, marches, or places grim,<br/><br/>Rivers, forests, or cities too fair,<br/><br/>Could avert the grasp of gold tree’s limb,<br/><br/>And riders onwards made their fare.<br/><br/><br/><br/>Singing of the birds that once sang, ere the sun crest its height,<br/><br/>And the flowers that boomed, the ever gone might,<br/><br/>Of the Rock and its steel, its galloping hosts,<br/><br/>That cowered before men of Goldengrove.</em>”<br/><br/>The tavern itself joined in the song. It was evidently well known throughout Oldtown. Sam would never have joined in the bawdy jests of the folk, for that was never proper fare of a lord’s heir, never mind one that sought for quiet. The Quill and Tankard did not serve to aid his peace of mind. <br/><br/>The songs and customs that the common folk knew, even in the kingdom in which he was reared, were thus foreign to him. He could not join in, nor did he ever wish to. Sam closed his eyes, hoping that he could hear the lyrics over the indistinguishable chatter. The effort was fruitless, for the continuous chanting of the patrons disallowed for the verses to be heard, so he cut interest in the song and turned to face his companions.<br/><br/>The tavern itself became a mess hall yet again, with patrons slamming their goblets in enthusiasm to join the rising chorus of song. He sneaked a glance at the troupe, and they were yet performing as before, undeterred by the great disturbance.<br/><br/>“<em>This has become commonplace for them</em>,” Sam thought.<br/><br/>“Do you know this song, Tarly?” a voice spoke. It was high and yet playful, and he knew at once that it was Alleras. Amidst the din of the many voices that prevailed in the inn, the words became muffled. He bit his lip to attempt to recall her question.<br/><br/>“Yes?” he answered hesitantly,”What did you say?”<br/><br/>“Do you know of the tale behind this song?”she pressed.<br/><br/>“Uh…, no. May I ask what it is?”Sam replied.<br/><br/>Alleras sniggered, and the rest of the table burst into laughter.<br/><br/>“A Reachman does not know the tale of the Feast of Goldengrove,” Tyrell sputtered between fits of laughter,”and here I thought this Dornishman was uncultured.”<br/><br/>“Have you been taught your histories, my friend?” he continued,”I had supposed that maesters were supposed to be learned.”<br/><br/>Blood began to rush towards Sam’s cheeks, and he tried to ignore the remnants of mocking sniggers that rang throughout the table. Sam tried to hide his embarrassment to no avail.<br/><br/>Instead, he asked,”Alleras, could you enlighten me?”<br/><br/>“I’d be glad to,” she responded,”It was a thousand years ago, give or take. Archmaester Perestan states that any date before the age of the dragon kings should be taken into doubt, for war and turmoil lost truthful records. Any remaining were possibly the product of later maesters, unreliable. Even in the recorded histories, there have been disputes, most namely between Archmaester Tywald’s <em>History of Kings </em>, and Grand Maester Farlan’s <em>Westeros, An Age of Petty Kings </em>. Tywald says it occurred a thousand and five hundred years ago, while Farlan says only five. The exact day does not matter. Let’s just say five, so our memory can be fresher. So hundred years ago, two centuries before the Conqueror set foot at Aegonfort, a Lannister… Was it a Loren, Tyrell?”<br/><br/>Tyrell composed his face and responded in a serious tone,”I believe it was Tommen. One of the three, anyways. I don’t have my history with me.”<br/><br/>“It’s no wonder that Perestan refused to give you that link a month ago,” Alleras sighed.<br/><br/>“Sphinx, it's not as if you need know every minute mote of every reign,” Tyrell stated,”You need only know how to learn of them. Besides, I was compiling a host of letters for Lord Mace at the time, for the Citadel needed a trusted man. It was a time of war, so I had to serve. I had not the time to review and study.”<br/><br/>Alleras sniggered again, but nodded,”So, Tommen Lannister and armies of the Rock embarked on an invasion of the Reach. The king, then, Mern, the Sixth of His Name, was ailing from old age. The Shields had also come under a new assault of the Ironborn, hoping to stage another raid across the Reach. King Tommen sought to wrest from Mern’s crown the lands of Old oak and Goldengrove. The forests proved to be valuable, and Tommen sought to force a concession, as the Reach had other matters to attend to. Yet he had miscalculated, for he had only accounted for the Highgarden levies, which were in battle with the Ironborn at the Shields. He had not thought of the hosts of Oakheart and Rowan, whom the Lord Rowan, who was famed for his height, rallied to his banner. Not a fortnight after the Rock’s host crossed the border, they were waylaid in ambush by the knights of Rowan by the Ocean Road. Caught by surprise, the host broke easily, and King Tommen was only able to escape with a small company of personal knights. Many of Tommen’s finest perished in the rearguard protecting their king’s escape, and even as the king was able to evade the net, many of his lords did not. It was said that the line of captured lords stretched out near half a league, and that is not to speak of the common knights and men-at-arms awaiting ransom.”<br/><br/>“It is said,” Tyrell interjected,”that the glory of that victory was only ever matched by the Conqueror at the Field of Fire or the Young Wolf at Riverrun. Reachmen proved to be hardier than Westermen in every generation. It was only by our aid that they stood a chance against the Conqueror, and it was by our aid that the lions won the War of the Five Kings. Without the roses, a lone lion is nothing.”<br/><br/>Alleras glared at him, then responded albeit with a slightly irritated tone,”It was not your rose that won the war in the song. Last I heard, they were still yet serving the Gardener’s meals at the time.”<br/><br/>“We are Gardeners,” Tyrell responded,”Garth Greenhand’s blood flows as true in us as it does in all the seeds he sowed. We have as much might as the kings of old. Mightier, I’d say, for the Gardeners had not all of Westeros in their grasp. By the way, I’d warn you again to be careful with your slander. My father would not take it well, even if I am forgiving enough to stomach it.”<br/><br/>The din in the inn reached its peak, as it was clear that the song had met its apex.<br/><br/>“Would His Lordship Lord Moryn care for the mindless ramblings of every worthless peasant boy?” Alleras said playfully with a seductive smile.<br/><br/>“No,” Tyrell countered,”but you are not a farmer’s bastard, are you? I haven’t figured your riddle yet, Sphinx. You are obviously a nobleman. So whose byblow are you?”<br/><br/>He brushed the black locks that swept across Alleras’s forehead,”It is clear that you are a Dornishman, but from what house? Yronwood? I heard that Lord Anders was particularly lusty. I’ve met his children before. You look just as his heir Cletus. Was it by chance that you look just the same, or is it because you are his sister?”<br/><br/>He let go of the locks of hair, and they smoothened.<br/><br/>“No,” he firmly stated,”you lack the build.”<br/><br/>“So Santagar, Toland, Fowler, <em>Martell </em>?” He stressed each name, hoping to garner a response from Alleras, but her face remained smooth as calm grass.<br/><br/>Tyrell suddenly struck forward and cupped Allera’s chin in his arm,”Wyl,” he said, as if it were correct.<br/><br/>Alleras snapped his hand away and fixed him with a malicious glare,”Wrong again. You’re lucky that I did not bring my bow tonight.”<br/><br/>Tyrell shrunk back into his seat and took a long swill of his wine.<br/><br/>“Wyl it is,” he said,”I can see it in your eyes. Dark, but not quite black. That black mood of yours that perfectly suits the vultures. Then again, perhaps not. They are too proud to fuck a Summer Islander.”<br/><br/>Sam saw the deadly glint in Alleras’s eyes, the glint of a viper, and he knew what was to come to pass. It would harly bode well if she struck an offshoot of the roses. She was the only person who seemed genuinely kind to him in Oldtown. She would have to reveal her secret so as to not lose a hand, and Sam had to keep it for her. Women were not allowed in the Citadel.<br/><br/>He grasped her arm, feeling the tense muscles, and sought to quell the storm.<br/><br/>“Um… Alleras,” he dared,”Could you continue to tell the story. I believe you lost the trail of the battle. You spoke just of the aftermath of the great Reach triumph, did you not?”<br/><br/>Alleras turned, and for a moment, Sam’s breath fell short as her icy gaze fixed upon him. He flinched, and quickly withdrew his arm. A piercing chill ran down his spine, numbing all senses save a desire to run. <br/><br/>Then, comprehension dawned upon Allera’s mind, and her eyes softened.<br/><br/>“My apologies,” she said,”We lost our sense to other trivial matters.”<br/><br/>Tyrell looked merely amused, and laid back to rest lazily upon his chair.<br/><br/>A round of applause suddenly broke the anxious air, and Sam looked to see that the son was finished. The singers rose and bowed. Another shower of gold accompanied the end of the tale they spun. Two of their members, the youngest, went about their space, packing the instruments, collecting the fallen coins, and counting their earnings. It was clear that the performance was over for this night, as the rest of the Wandering Princes not bogged by duty moved amongst the patrons, striking up conversations. <br/><br/>Sam spied the leader move to the innkeeper’s bar. The innkeeper poured them two flasks ofa le, and they honoured each other with a clink of their goblets.<br/><br/>“Tarly,” Alleras said,”Do you wish to hear the rest of the tale?”<br/><br/>Sam retracted his attention, and yielded to Allera’s question,”I would.”<br/><br/>“Good,” Alleras responded,” before I was rudely disrupted, were not we at the part of the lion’s defeat. I was just about to say that their song, for the most part, keeps true to the history. Yet at one part it deviates from the original song of the battle. I trust you have found it already. It gives no mention of the Lannisters. I suppose that we, now living under the rule of the lions, have to cut all slander and satire. Last fortnight, a mummer’s troupe were arrested by Lord Hightower for dishonour of the king’s banner. And here I thought that Tommen was a stag, a Baratheon. I believe the original lyrics were as such:<br/><br/><em>‘And the lions that sought to claim their lands,<br/><br/>Shed their manes and ran to flee.’</em><br/><br/>They fear to sing of a Lannister defeat, so they replace the defeated with that of a lesser house. Crakehall was probably at the Crimson Sands, perhaps even one of the captured lords, but he was certainly not its leader. Theobald is not going to be content after he hears wind of this new parody. I have a lecture to attend on the morrow with him to earn my leaden link. On a good day, he is rather agreeable. However, I fear the opposite, as a gruff Theobald is much like his former sigil, stubborn and short-tempered.”<br/><br/>He heard Tyrell put his cup down loudly, and state,”These singers. They see how the wind comes and goes, and change their tales to their lords like leaves in a storm. Worthless as a ragged cloth to clothe you on a cold day. The word of we maesters, however, is as good and solid as stone. We deal in histories and truth. The Citadel does not care of the favours and grants of kings and princes, as our order is engraven upon the basest foundations of Westeros, knowledge. Our mission is to weave the truthful tapestry of our past and future. Kings may come and go, but maesters remain for eternity. As long as wisdom prevails, maesters rule the earth. As kings rise and fall as cities prosper and crumble, we sit and write our books, undisturbed, unbroken. A chain may imply servitude, but we are masters in truth. Future generations look and see not the swords and banners that kings and lords once drew with their mighty hosts. They see the swords and banners that we weave of kings and lords with our quills. Their memory is bound to us. Their glory is bound to us. It is to maesters to judge whether every man lives in song or infamy. They die, but we last. Look at the Grand Maester. He held the office since Aegon, the fifth of that name, the king of a time that we name history, sat the Iron Throne. He sat through Jaehaerys, Aerys, Robert, Joffrey, the host of kings that rose in the war, and now Tommen. How many Hands, how many other men who held the judgement of the realm, have fallen throughout those reigns, their names a passing wind on the records. Yet through all these kings, there was only one maester. Kings come and go, but we sit unperturbed. That is what I shall be when the council selects its next Grand Maester. Pycelle will not live long, though I pray that the gods grant him enough time as to have me complete several links. I shall then sit by Tommen, his heirs by my beautiful cousin, his heirs, and another five kings.” <br/><br/>He took a long swig from his goblet, which choked him, and soon Tyrell found himself keeling over the side of his chair, retching and coughing. Luckily, he had swallowed most of the liquid, and only tiny gobs of spit flew out of his mouth as he gasped violently. It lost him whatever dignity he might have gained with his speech.<br/><br/>Alleras burst out in a hearty chuckle, and Mollander and Roone struggled to contain their amusement. They failed, and the dams that they forced upon their mouths burst open, unleashing a torrent of mockery. Other tables began to take note of Tyrell’s plight, and confused whispers began to form amongst the various groups near their own. Aware of the unwanted attention he attracted, Tyrell attempted to recompose himself in dignity as his coughs subsided. He sat regally and stiff, unconsciously straightening the blond curls that had fallen over his eyes when he fell to the side.<br/><br/>He was not surprised that the election was rigged, much as it was at Castle Black. The Tyrells would assuredly have a hand in the order upon their own kingdom. It was only a fluke that allowed Jon to be chosen the Lord Commander, for there were too many hands that laid upon Castle Black’s seat, and the most unlikely won.<br/><br/>“<em>And much good that did us</em>,” Sam thought,”<em>Jon became Lord Snow, proud and cold</em>.”<br/><br/>Sam suddenly felt an urge rise from his gut. He felt his bladder tighten, and removed himself quietly from his company. <br/><br/>The privies at the Quill and Tankard emptied straight into the Honeywine. Sam did not envy those downstream. Even so, it was better than none, for they were a luxury that only the best of inns could hold. <br/><br/>A rancid smell invaded his nostrils as he opened the door of the privy. Several patrons near him covered their noses with cloth and scooted away from the source. It was a popular night, and many had thought to exercise their leavings. Spongy buttons of grime stuck to the sides and top of the chamber pot, and Sam was grateful that his stomach was not in need of complete emptying. Even the deepest cesspits of Castle Black did not allow for such grime. In the horrendous cold of the Wall, any leaving would freeze before it stank.<br/><br/>The river danced under the opening of the pot, flickering beads of water that stained the privy’s floor and walls. Its sheen was as black as Sam’s cloak under the failing light of the moon above. He undid his belt, and pulled down his breeches. Sam gazed at the scar on his right thigh. A wildling spearwife had taken a knife to him at the battle. It was not particularly deep, and it had healed quickly, but he was reminded of her courtesy every time he took a piss. <br/><br/>The midnight bells suddenly rang. Twelve chimes, each from the great marble tower of the Starry Sept. Each was as stiff and leaden as ice chunks in the north. The blessing of the gods were little better to do Sam fortune than the strangling grasp of heavy snows.<br/><br/>As the liquid of his piss disappeared into the dark abyss of the night, he turned to meet the Inn’s light.<br/><br/>“<em>I was not supposed to linger beyond midnight</em>,” he thought. He had vowed to return to the ship ere day’s end, so as to check upon Gilly and the babe to prepare for the journeys of the next days. <br/><br/>Sam returned to the din of the inn invading his sense when he returned to the rowdy hall. He decided to leave now, to depart for the ship and his family that he had not seen in near two days.<br/><br/>Sam made for the door of the Quill and Tankard, hoping that none would bat an eye upo the black-cloaked stranger that swiftly passed. Some were gambling, others drinking, and most both. His hope was ill-founded, for he could not leave the inn without hindrance.<br/><br/>“Tarly,” he heard a voice call. Sam turned his head to Leo Tyrell’s beckoning hand. THe noble had evidently gathered a large grouping of Citadel acolytes near him.<br/><br/>“Come,” Tyrell shouted over the clamour of the inn, beckoning Sam to come over to the table. Sam briefly considered refusing and leaving the inn. The entrance, a pair of ornately carved wooden doors, stood mere feet from him. He then decided that it would be best to not insult his fellow acolytes if he were to spend several years at the Citadel. He halted his strides and heeded the young noble’s call.<br/><br/>Tyrell’s smile widened as he approached. The seat that he had occupied had already a new occupant, a red-haired novice with freckles and droopy eyes. The entire space around Tyrell was packed with bodies, as horses crowded about hay. <br/><br/>He spotted Alleras sitting uncomfortably in her previous seat, her eyes narrowed in amusement. No one moved for Sam, so he had to press against the throng of bodies in order to squeeze himself a place amidst the revellers.<br/><br/>“We’re glad that you could join us, Tarly,” Tyrell curled his smirk. His bond hair shone with an elegant glimmer by the fires of the torches. It seemed the same as the unearthly mist that he glanced on the skin of an Other, its sheen too vibrant to be the light of the moon.<br/><br/>He shook his head, and regained his sense, blotting the image of the Other from his mind. He was in the south now, in the warmth of Oldtown’s walls, and he need only worry of Leo Tyrell.<br/><br/>Sam forced himself to gaze once again at Tyrell’s face, still framed by those very strands of hair. It will not do to appear a craven, even if he thought himself one in every passing.<br/><br/>“You might be wondering,” Tyrell announced, his arms raised in majesty,”why this noble lord has called upon you? Why I have gathered you here, the promising acolytes and maesters of the Citadel.” <br/><br/>He put a hand upon his heart, to Sam it looked in mock sincerity,”It is because I am a generous man. You have spent worthy time enlightening your craft of the various virtues offered by the Citadel, but one cannot labour endlessly. There is still time needed to rest the mind, to bathe in some hard-won relief from your studies.”<br/><br/>“This is why,” he pulled from his pocket a golden dragon,”I will be hosting a game of Grand Cyvasse in which the Sphinx and I are to be the judges. I will be offering this as a prize to the victor. I know many of you have learned of what it entails.” <br/><br/>Enthusiastic murmurs broke out amongst the crowd gathered. The patrons not of the progeny of the Citadel raised their heads in curiosity. <br/><br/>Sam had heard of Grand Cyvasse before, though never played it. When he was a boy, the maester at Horn Hill had taught him classic cyvasse. The game had been extremely intriguing, before Lord Tarly had forbidden Sam any contact with the castle’s maester so as to strangle his youthful desire. Little matters of amusement were allowed in the Watch as well, so his skill may have considerably deteriorated since then. The Braavosi had offered to play him a match in several instances, to face this high lord from Westeros that they saw clothed all in black. He had declined then, owing to find Dareon in the various inns and brothels. He had heard that Grand Cyvasse was much like its namesake, yet much larger in scale. Tens of players could engage in battles purported in its minor counterpart, with several players coordinating their attack or defense in the various factions. Still, though players might be on a team in name, they are ultimately operating on a personal basis, and are free to choose who to be loyal to or betray. Most sought a faction anyways, for it was impossible to survive alone. The lone men were always defeated in the first rounds. The first kings of the factions often did not live to see its end. New kings rose and fell, as factions battled to the bitter end, until a single man remained to feast on the ashes. There could only be one king in the end.<br/><br/>“<em> The last king is never the hero </em>,” Sam thought,” <em>He need not win every battle, only the last</em>.”<br/><br/>It was a popular game amongst the Tiger warlords of Volantis. It might be the same with the inns and common folk of Westeros. <br/><br/>Sam also knew that each game would take at least an hour. He could not spare the time, but the glint of Tyrell’s gold shined in his eyes. He did not wish to pay for a whore, but he could always use more gold on the journey to Horn Hill. The roads are always treacherous, and he may need to have extra ransom to buy their lives from bandits. Sam also did not know his castle had fared after his departure. Gold may be needed to bribe the guards and stewards if his family proved to favour his father, to buy Gilly a secure position in the Tarly household.<br/><br/>It would be another night without sleep, but Sam could bear this burden.<br/><br/>“<em>It is better, anyways</em>,” he thought,”<em>How many nameless nights have I spent on watch for doom? What is one more, but without the bitter cold</em>.” <br/><br/>It caused yet another ache in his head. He was here, in warm taverns, dicing and drinking with drunken boys, while his brother froze in the bitter North.<br/><br/>“<em>I am no deserter</em>,” he reasoned desperately,”<em>Every moment on the Wall is another moment wasted, when men could be studying the paths of victory instead of delay. I am of much more use in the south than at the Wall. This is my duty, and a price that I also have to pay. I will bear it gladly</em>."<br/><br/>It was noble for the Watch. He was not playing for a moment’s pleasure, but for the time when all the pleasures in the world may be snuffed out in the endless night. <br/><br/>“<em>I do it for gold</em>,” Sam thought,”<em>but this gold I need to bear my burdens. To bear it so that I will not look back in trivial concerns when I tread deeper into my grey cloak and touch again the tales of my ancestors. It may take a thousand rangers to stall the cold, but only one maester to break them all. Cold meets cold as blade meets frost, but fire burns, knowledge burns, to burn it all. Each has its own purpose, and I have mine. Every act that I take is another chink as I am chained to my duty, whether as a maester or a watchmen. I choose to wear the better chain. A turncloak never seeks to become a slave. I will win this chain, so i would not be the craven who abandoned his brothers. I am no turncloak, for black or grey, my cloaks still bear no colour. I do all i do for duty that is not forgotten. I do all I do, for the Watch</em>.”<br/><br/><br/><br/>It was half past the hour of the nightingale when the victor was hailed. Sam, however, heard not the famed songs of the nightingale’s tale, but the sour moans of dozens of acolytes who thought that they had spent two hours in vain. But even that bitterness paled in the eyes of the men who had lost money betting on the match. Almost none had wagered on Sam. <br/><br/>Though Sam had never played the game before, he knew some of the ways of the players. He had been fair in hand in classic cyvasse. The rest was just knowing when to stick with a pack or break. He had played underhand to a copper-headed youth in the opening turns, but jumped ship as soon as he saw the winds turn. He survived until the very end. That knowledge was awarded dearly, for Sam was relieved at the prospect of another coin that would soften the hardships of their travel.<br/><br/>He would need to trade it for a bag of silver, for he would be a fool to chance all his sees in one bountiful harvest. He could trade its value with the captain of the <em>Cinnamon Wind </em>, for he trusted that the captain would be less like to cheat him than the money changers of the Venturer’s Dock.<br/><br/>“I see that we have a victor,” Sam heard Tyrell declare,”Not quite the man I expected, but even fat whales may look handsome when no rose blooms in our midst.”<br/><br/>His mocking smile seemed to surprisingly hint of a genuine one. He tossed Sam the bag containing the one dragon, and Sam caught it with a deft hand.<br/><br/>“There are still some hours before dawn,” Tyrell spoke,”I daresay we will make you a man before then.<br/><br/>Sam then knew what he meant, as the serving girl approached, her mother reaching for the galleon.<br/><br/>The Sphinx’s eyes spoke disgust, but her lips curled slyly. Her face bathed half in torchlight and half in the shadow of another acolyte. Her robes were shrouded all in black. <br/><br/>Their table grew silent as they awaited Sam’s response, their eyes locked on Sam’s shaking hand. In the corner of the hall, he saw a rat skittering along to search for morsels of dropped food.<br/><br/>“I need… it, for other uses, if I beg your pardon, my lord,”Sam responded to Tyrell.<br/><br/>Tyrell’s mouth drooped, his eyes forming a glare. “I do not grant it,” he responded coldly,”This is not a request. Take it, or leave it.” <br/><br/>A fire rose within Sam, a fire that even he did not know still existed. There were always boys like Leo Tyrell, from the squires to pages that looked down upon Sam. Only his brother had shown kindness to him, and saw who he truly was. Sam was a craven then, afraid of their lashes, but he was no longer. He may fear the cold that rose from the northern wastes, but in this he was a craven no longer. In this, he was a man of the Night’s Watch, the man his father had wanted him to be.<br/><br/>He brushed the serving maids aside, and threw the bag in Tyrell’s face, ”Take it, then. I have no need for your gold anyways.”<br/><br/>Tyrell put aside the hand that caught the bag, but what was revealed was not an expression of fury or even malcontent, but a warm malicious smile.<br/><br/>“So it is true,” he spoke,”You are no craven, Tarly. It seems that Lord Randyll had the right of you. I had not an idea of how the Night’s Watch got your blood to boil in that accursed cold, though I imagine that a method for anything would have been discovered in eight thousand years. They keep their hearths and beds warm, I would wager, since they are men after all. Tales tell that the Night’s Watch turns its recruits into ice zombies by ancient sorcery to brace the endless cold, though I see now that it is not true. You are truly a man of worth. A man that I could name a worthy friend. It is not for me to deny that.”<br/><br/>He extended a hand to Sam,”Call me Leo. You will need many friends in the south, particularly in the trials of the Citadel. The favour of a Tyrell is a most promising prospect.”<br/><br/>Sam considered if he were mocking him, but his good sense decided against it. He approached and grasped Tyrell’s hand,”I accept your offer, Leo. Call me Sam.”<br/><br/>Leo’s smile grew wider, and he gave Sam the bag of gold,”Use it as you see fit. Would have liked to pretend that this is a kind gift to a new friend, but you have rightfully earned it.”<br/><br/>Sam received the bag of coins, and heard a jingle. Someone had put more than a galleon in the bag. He pocketed it in his black cloak, and nodded.<br/><br/>He thought of what he would do with the coin on the morrow, of why Tyrell had made this leap of pleasantry. Whatever the cause, Sam was glad to accept it. Sam tried to wonder of how he may yet live at the Citadel. He tried to think of the promising light that lay in his future, as his fortunes seemed to always fall into place with his desire.<br/><br/>His thoughts came only to the night. The greater fortune he chanced, the colder he felt. No matter what he thought, he felt grey eyes watching him, unblinking. The first friend that none would ever replace, watching him, unforgiving. <br/><br/>The nights whispered a song of howling wind. The taverns whispered the faint melody of the troupe’s harper that had returned to his charge. <br/><br/>But all Sam could hear, beneath the clamour of voices, was the soft clinking of chains.<br/><br/>He gazed to the window, and saw a silver web of frost unfurl across its frame.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. ALAYNE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Her father’s study bathed in the shimmering white light of the full moon. It shined through the sole window in the chamber, an elegantly carved frame of the finest cedar that only grew in the Vale’s high mountains. It was small, allowing only little natural light to illuminate the darkness. The rest of the light was supplanted by the fires of the torches that lay upon her father’s desk. Simple torchbearers bore four white candles, three of which were near extinguished. The fourth had already gone out. Alayne knew that a servant would come soon to change the torches, and set bright new ones in their place. She would need to conclude her business before then.</p><p>Lord Baelish’s study in the Gates of the Moon was modest, but it was meticulously cleaned. The other Vale lords had demanded grand chambers to suit their majesty and work, with carpets of lynx fur and spice-tinted chandeliers. Lord Nestor had been prepared to host her father with the same, but Lord Baelish asked otherwise.</p><p>The study her father requested was crafted of simple stone, and Alayne could judge that its age lay well over a century. The only decoration that furnished the chamber consisted of a wooden bookshelf lined with dozens upon dozens of volumes. The shelf itself was smooth and polished, though bearing no intricate carvings of its carpenter. It was not a craft worthy of the likes of those the status of the Lord Protector. Sheets of yellow paper that held rivers of scribbled black ink filed from almost all the books. Their multitude masked the pages of the books themselves. The only furniture aside from the bookshelf was the wooden desk in which her father now sat.</p><p>“<em>A simple room</em>,” her father had told her,”<em>for the arduous work that I am charged. I am a simple man, after all. It serves my purposes, and that is all I shall need of it. I have found that I work best in a plain and homely chamber, with only my mind and my quill. It shall be easier to track my works, as I need not look under every shadow. Here, I know where every piece and mark of work is set. I am of humble beginnings, and I need no pomp</em>.”</p><p>The feast was still ongoing in the high hall, though Lord Baelish had detached himself from the revels an hour ago. He still wore his dress robes, having not changed. It was a finely tailored doublet of deep purple velvet, with golden thread patterning a multitude of interlacing stems. His silver mockingbird pin adorned his breast, its beak brushing the parchment as he wrote. </p><p>Alayne raised the folds of her dress and came before her father. Lord Baelish sat with his head bowed over a scroll, his quill scribbling tirelessly line after line. His left hand held the white parchment in place as his right held his quill. By a trick of the light, it seemed that his hair shone gray, though it was still as young and black as the night. </p><p>“Father,” Alayne dallied, and Lord Baelish’s head rose. Her father set his quill in the inkpot with a gentle splash, abandoning the work he had set upon. He glanced at her, his eyes glittering.</p><p>She stepped closer to her father, her feet leaving soft taps on the cool stone. Her vibrant blue silks waved with graceful Myrish lace shone against the dim gray floor. The dress had been Lady Lysa’s, but Alayne had looked her true mother when she glanced in a mirror. </p><p>“<em>Too much alike</em>,” she thought,”<em>Too much alike Sansa Stark, the flowery highborn maid</em>.”</p><p>“Alayne,” he smiled warmly,”What is it that brings you here? I had thought Lord Robert’s feast was not to end until the hour of the wolf.”</p><p>“My lord,” she answered courteously,”Can a daughter not care for her father, especially if he works himself half to death upon the eve of winter? Working past midnight every day would not aid your sense.”</p><p>Her father’s smile did not fade, though his brow creased in concern.</p><p>“Alas,” he spoke,”I wish as much as the next man to forget the realm’s need, and look only unto my pleasures, but I cannot. The duties of the Lord Protector are not light, and I cannot forsake it for the sake of all the Vale. It is only quills, paper, and my toil, I’m afraid, not wine venison, and my laughter, that bears the bitter realm into winter. It is the same that prepares it again for spring, and I shall not have it said that Lord Baelish forgot his duty. A king’s chief servants are most cursed a post a man may take. The greater the place, the greater the duty. Yet a king could care not for the lives of his subjects, leave the duties to his servants, and all would still hail him a good king. None would dare usurp his place. Yet if a servant cared not, and abandoned his duty, there are many to supplant him. If any do not think so, they are only fit to be the fools that they are. I fear that this shall be my duty until I die. Yet if each stroke of mine could service the realm, if each word of my quill could make one life better, I will be glad, even if I were slave to this duty forever. If that is your cause to come, then I am afraid that I must deny you. I cannot rest while the realm is at stake.”</p><p>Alayne smiled shyly, and felt a gentle wind kiss her neck. Her hair fell before her. The brown locks of her dyed hair fell before her eyes. She brushed it aside, spying red creeping into the tresses.</p><p>“<em>I’ll need to dye it once more</em>,”she thought. It had been near a month since she had last done it. It will be years before she could be Sansa Stark again. </p><p>She did not know whether she wished to be the wolf maid again. Alayne feasted on sweets and tarts, while Sansa choked on her kin’s blood. They need not fight another war for her sake. She could be Alayne, Lord Baelish’s daughter, due to marry the heir of the Vale. When Ser Harrold became Lord of the Eyrie, she would become Lady Arryn. Was not to become a lady what Sansa always wished? She loved the tales of summer knights, and she could live it so for the rest of her life as the mockingbird’s daughter. Alayne need not face winter. She need not face her burnt home, and a lordship that promised nothing but blood.</p><p>“<em>Robb is dead</em>,” Alayne thought,”<em>Bran and Rickon are cold corpses. I would curse Theon to the Seven Hells, if he were not there yet. Arya is most like to be dead as well. I am the only one left. The only wolf, and Jon. Oh… Jon, what should I do? You or Robb would have led great hosts to reclaim Winterfell, raising the Stark banner above the North with your own hands. They would follow you. Bran and Rickon could also command the loyalties of the northern lords. Even Arya would be better suited. She was never called Lady Lannister. How would I build House Stark from ashes? How would I lead the host to seize Winterfell from the traitors who make their dwellings there? I do not know, yet I am the only one </em> . <em> The host is not even mine, only my father and husband’s. How can I be Lady Stark, and bring the North under my rule? </em>”</p><p>“That is not my only cause to be here,” Alayne said,”I have some… worries. Can Father speak for just a little while, to hear my words? Put aside that thrice-damned duty for once, to be a father. It seems that you never performed those duties, what with your work. It has become obvious to some. They even think me not your daughter. Can you console me that I am?”</p><p>“I will grant you this time, then,” Lord Baelish answered, sniggering,”What is it that you wish to discuss?”</p><p>“<em>Does he not care?"</em> Alayne thought,”<em>This would ruin him, if they knew who he shielded. I do not know if any are true to the lions</em>.” She did not wish her blood on her hands. He saved her from the lions. Gave her a new name. He gave her a home when she had none, made her a hearth when snow had graced her brow. Sansa Stark would have already lain in the dark cesspits of the black cells of King’s Landing, but Alayne Stone, Lord Baelish's bastard, lived to feast on cakes and melons in a castle that was soon to be hers. She owed him what she could never repay.</p><p>“Father,” she pleaded,”Please take your heart from those pieces of parchment. Look at a child as a father would.”</p><p>Lord Baelish sat back into his seat, resting upon its thin cushion,”Ever like your lady mother, my dear. I could never refuse her company either. Do you think that I do not know of our love? I have loved as I ever loved her.  All the others do not matter. What they think does not matter. Let them think what they wish, I am your father, and you my trueborn daughter Alayne. All I do out of care for you. What shall they think of our love? That it is false? Let them think so. Let them think that they know, so the call of my work would not seem so foreign to a father. Let them think so, and I would seem an uncaring man. But all my duty I do is to care for you. So long as we are true, my love is eternal. All I do out of care for your future, and I hope that you know.”</p><p>He paused, touching his beardless chin and realizing that it had been shaved away. He laughed gently,”Let us not waste any more of this candle’s light. What is your true purpose?”</p><p>Alayne nodded, understanding. She placed a hand on her father’s desk, shining silver in the moonlight. Her father took her hand into his, his skin warm and bony. His hold was tight,”What is it, my dear?”</p><p>She felt red blossom her cheeks,”It’s about… Ser Harrold.”</p><p>Lord Baelish laughed again, this time with pleasant mirth. His face, free of the beard, made his chuckle seem hale and bright, no longer sinister.</p><p>“My dear,” he said,”Have I found the right man? How do you find our Young Falcon?”</p><p>“Ser Harrold… is … more than I thought of him when you told me I was to be married.”</p><p>“Is he?” her father responded,”I’m glad he did not make you think of him as Harry the Arse.”</p><p>“He is very comely and brave,” Alayne said,”He’s fought very valiantly in the tourney. I think he’ll most certainly make the Winged Knights.”</p><p>Her voice grew dreamy as she spoke,”Kind, too. He was ever most courteous on the hunt several days ago. He helped me with my stirrups, calmed my mare, made certain that I was to be shielded at all times, and even let me try out his bow.”</p><p>“<em>Joffrey did all that, too</em>,” she thought.</p><p>“I think that he’ll make a very fine match,” she continued,”Father, and I thank you for making this suitable arrangement. I am ever so grateful. I must ask you, though. Why did you not let me give him my favour? Who was I to give it to, if not him or Ser Harlan.”</p><p>“Ser Harlan,” her father responded,”no doubt, would be thanking the Maiden that the fairest beauty in the tourney granted him her honour. I daresay he thinks you fancy him, and I suppose I should be bid to post more guards outside your chamber tonight. He is like to come, and try his fortunes again. I do not look forward to explaining to Lady Waynwood why my daughter was spoiled by another man when she is due to marry the finest bachelor of the Vale.”</p><p>His grey eyes flicked to the dying embers of the last candle,”In truth, Ser Harlan would have served. Any knight would have other than our good Ser Harrold, and it would suffice. Ser Harlan is an odd choice for my daughter, as he is not necessarily in the good graces of the Vale lords. I would have given it to men more known for honour, so it will not seem a scandalous gambit, though I did say that you could decide. But that is not the reason that I shook my head. There was no deep scheme beneath my words. There never was in any I utter from my tongue. Some never gained that wisdom. I meant it as an innocent gesture. You are to be Ser Harrold’s bride, and you must win his love. Jealousy is the scent that drives men mad with it. I tasted of that bitter taste long ago, and I can attest to it every night as the cold pierces my navel. A man abandons quickly what he could easily have. When you pull away, when you seem to love another knight, he shall desire what he cannot have. I heard he has lovers, bastards too. He would abandon them as quickly as a bird flees a cat. He will see nothing but you. Jealousy shall narrow his sight until all he sees is the blind red tint of love, and he shall feel the world’s weight compelling him to pursue his bride. He shall want to prove that he is a worthy man, and he shall cherish you as the Maiden herself for your approval and live in return. That shall be all that he sees. It is my greatest wish to see my daughter in the arms of one who truly loves her. I want you to feel love, and be happy.”</p><p>“<em>You want me to be his prize</em>,” she thought,”<em>as I was yours</em>.”</p><p>“You want me to play a game with him,” Alayne realized.</p><p>His father loosened his grip on her hand, glancing down at his parchment. His eyes drooped and his smile died. Alayne saw now the missives on the desk clearly. By the inkpot, there lay a piece of yellow parchment. It bore flowery scribbles and a signature. The seals it bore were of Tommen’s stag and lion, as well as a burning chain.</p><p>“It’s better to play some games than others. It was always most difficult for us humble lords. I can only serve at the leisure of the great ones, but be forgotten by my own work. My deeds shall be set under the name of someone far mightier than the Lord of the smallest of the Fingers. But that is not for you. I play this game for you, so that you might not have to suffer as I had. You shall be greater. A lady that shall be their equal. You may not need to play as I do, but these games you must still play.”</p><p>“What is it?” Alayne asked, curious of the missive. </p><p>Lord Baelish pursed his lips,”I had wished to tell you on the morrow. It would have been better suited to receive the tidings in the light of day. We received a missive from King’s Landing. Dark wings, dark words. This is why I could not remain in the feast. The raven came two days ago. The Lords Declarant and I have been discussing its contents at length while holding it back, not wishing to douse the cheer with a spray of cold water. Or should I say, a breath of dragonflame. We thought to let tempers cool, and wines settle, until we are compelled to reveal it on the morrow. Only those few lords know, but they have all agreed that it would be prudent for our knights to receive the tidings when the tourney fire is at its highest in the final joust.”</p><p>He looked up at her, eyes hardening into gems,”The crown is under assault yet again. Though this missive in question is rather queer. It is sent in the name of King Tommen of the House Baratheon, but the signature accompanying it is that of a certain Lord Stokeworth. I had thought that I would hear from Queen Cersei, or her uncle the Lord Regent. I also heard that Mace Tyrell was made Hand. If those two did not send the letter, it was certain to be the Lord of Highgarden. This is intriguing… of who it seems to hold King Tommen at his sway. However, there are other matters that are of more import.”</p><p>“A man by the name of Aegon Targaryen,” he divulged,”has landed upon the shores of the Stormlands at the head of the Golden Company. This man seems to be the lost son of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia, the same boy that had seemingly had his brains dashed in the Red Keep during the Sack of King’s Landing. It seems that he has survived. Lord Jon Connington, long thought dead, has seemingly come back to life to aid his prince’s son. If his claim is true, he is the rightful heir, and shall have a stronger claim that his grace King Tommen. All men that hate the lions, whether dragon’s men or stag’s during Robert’s Rebellion, shall flock to his banner. They shall see Prince Rhaegar in him, those that still remember, and those that do not the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror, a dragon king to unite Westeros from its squabbles. He has claimed Griffin’s Roost, and if the tales are true, Storm’s End as well. Those are Stannis’s holdings, but those victories served to mark him as a worthy king to serve, drawing those that were at first of doubtful heart. The missive states that though he landed with twenty thousand men, his numbers had swollen to near sixty. An exaggeration, of course, but I believe that he has at least thirty thousand men under his banner to claim such a number. Dorne’s spears are poised in the Boneway, uncertain of true loyalty. Lord Mace had marched the Reach’s host into the Stormlands to quell the threat, but no word of his victory or defeat returned to King’s Landing. This Aegon is more a danger to King Tommen than Robb Stark was ever to Joffrey. The Lannisters still had an army when the Young Wolf battled in the Riverlands. Those hosts are now gone. Their allies are uncertain. This dragon king, if he had emerged victorious over Tyrell’s host, would have naught between him and King’s Landing. The Iron Throne is not the realm, but Prince Rhaegar’s heir claiming his seat would give many lords pause over who to truly declare their loyalty, this Young Dragon having both a host and a kingdom. King Tommen is most like to lose his throne. The crown’s future is dire, and it calls for the Vale’s aid.”</p><p>“<em>Tommen is only a boy</em>,” she thought,”<em>in this bloody game. He was young and innocent, and he could not choose to be king. This Aegon will make short work of him, as a man would certainly a child. He is only a young boy, pure and innocent, not deserving of any of war’s cruelty. </em> ” </p><p>“<em>So were Bran and Rickon</em>,” Alayne thought,”<em>Only boys, in Robb and Theon’s game. They could not deserve any of the kraken’s knives</em>.” She bit her tongue, and swallowed the dim urge that surfaced in her heart. That was not her. </p><p>“<em>The Tyrells would certainly take Tommen to safety</em>,” she consoled herself,”<em>They are a righteous house, just and noble. Lady Margaery was ever so kind. Lord Mace, steadfast and honest. I pray that he would emerge unscathed from the Stormlands. Garlan and Loras were the most gallant knights, fit to shield a king unlike those others that wear a white cloak. They would certainly shield an innocent boy that has no faults. I would only ask that they leave the Queen Mother behind to this dragon king</em>.”</p><p>“What do you mean to do about it?” Alayne asked her father,”How will you answer them?” </p><p>“Lord Robert shall raise his cream and blue banners. His shining knights shall pour forth from the Bloody Gate, riding to aid their king. Our steel has long rusted, but it is long past time for it to see blood. It is long past time for it to service its true liege. No more shall usurpers rise against the throne. We shall answer this call with all the Vale’s lances to our true king. King Tommen. Lord Robert is his true man. I as well.”</p><p>“<em>What are his true designs?” </em> Alayne wondered,”<em>He is no lion man, no more than he would forsake his power as Lord Protector. Yet why does he answer to Tommen’s call? Why does he declare for the lions?” </em></p><p>“We have already sent ravens to all the castles of the Vale,” Lord Baelish continued,”In a fortnight, I would say that the first outriders from the Winged Ridge would come in sight of the Eyrie. In three months at most, all the knights of the Vale would assemble at the Gates of the Moon, ready to ride forth. We pray that the crown may hold for that long, and wait for our aid. It is already agreed that Lord Royce shall have supreme command of the forces. Lord Belmore and Lord Redfort shall have secondary command under him, and shall replace him if the need arises. ‘As High as Honor’ as the Arryn words. We shall prove our honor. We shall answer to the one true king.”</p><p>Her father twisted his lips in thought,”On the morrow, when we tell the knights of the tourney of the coming war, they shall be eager to take it. We are glad that there are already dozens of the Vale’s finest present at Lord Robert’s castle. We need not wait on knights or commanders, only the levied horsemen to strengthen our numbers. All the knights here would be sufficient, and eager to earn their honor and valour.”</p><p>He fingered his quill,”This is the true reason why I was hesitant to tell you this now. Ser Harrold would feel the same as the other knights, that it is his duty to serve in the war. Lady Waynwood and I have discussed this at length, for wars may take years. My conscience demands it of me now. There is no telling how long this war may last. It may be years before Ser Harrold can return, and even the most valiant knights may fall. We cannot keep him in the Vale, either, elsewise the men may lose heart if their Young Falcon is not braving the same dangers. It would be most like to ruin your future if this is not seen through. This betrothal cannot remain a baseless promise.”</p><p>“<em>He broke it</em>,” Alayne thought,”<em>Why would he forsake it? I can never repay his kindness, so I would be ever his daughter in truth. Why would he give away a piece by the Vale? What am I to win the North, if not the Arryn knights? It is perhaps that he means to wed me to someone better, with greater sway. Or… </em>“</p><p>Her father’s voice cut through her thoughts,”It is our wish that we would arrange your wedding earlier, so that your union would not be only a half-hearted promise while Ser Harrold fights in the war. You shall be married to Ser Harrold in the eyes of most of the Lords of the Vale, under the light of the Seven that reveals all. It would be hasty and ill-prepared, but any festival could serve our purposes. It would lighten the hearts of the men as well before they embark on a treacherous campaign. If it is to my liking, it would take place in roughly a fortnight, to herald the first comings of our banners. If we do not, the wedding may have to wait until next spring, as the war ends. All promises are scattered ash in the wake of winter, but an union sealed in the eyes of the gods shall endure as a castle. There would be ample time for you to know each other, for the host would not march for months. Is this arrangement suitable?”</p><p>“<em>He wants me to be Sansa Stark</em>,” Alayne realized. She knew Lord Baelish’s true purpose now,”<em>to wear that grey white cloak at my wedding with my hair uncoloured. I would wed Ser Harrold as my mother did with Lord Eddard before he set out to join Robert’s Rebellion. I shall do my duty as well. This is the wedding before my war. Answering to Tommen’s call was just a ruse. It would appear suspicious to the crown if my father raised his banners without cause. When the wedding comes, he would reveal me to all the Vale’s lords. The light of the Seven shines not only on the true hearts of the married, but also to reveal the fur that was long dampered in feathers. They will raise their swords for me as the northern lords had for my father and Robb. I will win Winterfell back again. My father will bring me home</em>.”</p><p>Frost tickled her kin from her neck to her fingertips. Her cheeks felt stiff and frozen. She saw herself, sitting by Jeyne in the warm halls of Winterfell, weaving pretty designs to the delight of Septa Mordane. She listened to the excited shouts of Arya playing with Robb and Jon and Bran. Lady Catelyn opened the door, and Sansa Stark would look up to see baby Rickon swaddled at her mother’s breast. Through the open door, she would see the stern form of Lord Eddard, untangling the tangled heap that was her siblings. It seemed that the lions had never come. It seemed that Theon was never there. </p><p>Alayne wrenched herself from the rosy vision of her home. That would never be, for the dead she could not bring back to life. Yet she could see the Stark wolf rising above the battlements of its mighty walls. She could still fill her halls with laughter and joy, and pretend as if the old memories never died. She could have peace, and make certain that no future Stark maiden would ever have to endure what she had. She wished for a Stark in Winterfell again, for all to go as it was. She wished to touch those stones, to sleep on a bed that was hers. She would wish even to feel the cold snows kiss her cheek, which young Sansa hated. She would love even the snow.</p><p>“Yes, father,” she replied. </p><p>Her father did not give a smile. He rose from his seat, and strode to the windowsill. A flurry of snow entered the study through the open frame, and her father caught some in his fingers.</p><p>“Lord Varys seems to have shown his hand,”he spoke solemnly,”This is much too hasty, and quite unlike him. This Aegon is not his last card. He would be a fool to gamble all on one king. He has another. Sailors tell tales, but if too many tell the same, one must be prepared that it is the truth. Whoever emerges victorious upon these lands shall either bow or die to the flame that shall rise in the east. To the dragon queen, Daenerys Targaryen, and her three beasts. That is Varys’s last card, the card that none here would know he holds. The three dragons are his last card, and his greatest. It would seem that this Aegon, if victorious, would marry the dragon queen ,and continue the line of fire with true drakes once more. If this Aegon fails, then the dragon queen shall come and scorch this earth as the Conqueror once did. Whatever the end of this dragon king, the dragons and their mother will see the eunuch’s triumph.”</p><p>“<em>What of us then?” </em> she thought,”<em>Will we bow to this dragon queen? She will not suffer the loss of half her kingdom. This is unbecoming of her father. He would not be sated to serve meekly the Spider and his designs</em>.”</p><p>She caught the moonlight reflecting off her father’s half-finished parchment. The words of the black ink were indistinguishable to her.</p><p>“<em>I do not know what he writes</em>,” Alayne thought,”<em>The light has never shone on my father’s quill. Yet I do know that the blood of the fallen is his ink, and the coming years are only another page under the mockingbird’s quill</em>.” </p><p>A knock interrupted them. Alayne bit her lip and looked to the source of the disruption. She heard voices speaking, then a sharp thump as either Ser Shadrich or Ser Oswell withdrew to their posts. It was the latter that opened the door, his mousy orange hair sticking outwards like the mane of a lion as he bowed. </p><p>Ser Shadrich had been eliminated in the first melee of the tourney, though he still wore his finest mail and an even finer smile. Alayne felt a slight shiver when she met his gleaming green eyes, though she towered over his head. The Mad Mouse suited his name well. It made her uneasy, how that sly smile curled about that sharp nose. He looked like Joffrey with his cruel grins.</p><p>“<em>I should have brought a guard</em>,” she then realized,”<em>Even the halls of the Eyrie are no place for a lone maiden. I had been too bold to venture here on my own</em>.”</p><p>“Lord Baelish,” he reported,”Ser Morbert Grafton begs your audience.”</p><p>“Send him in,” Lord Baelish replied. </p><p>Alayne withdrew to the side, and a tall knight entered. He wore a flaming red surcoat with the yellow tower emblazoned upon it. A dark blond beard adorned his face, which was comely but hard. His crimson cloak followed in his wake as he strode before Lord Baelish.</p><p>He gave her father a stiff nod,”Lord Protector, my father Lord Gerold gives you his most sincere greetings. If it is to your convenience, Lord Royce and my father have wished for my lord to attend their pleasure.”</p><p>Lord Baelish nodded,”Tell Lord Royce and your father that I am burdened at the moment, but know of the paramount importance of their summons. It is my greatest wish to serve, and I shall conclude my affairs quickly to be of convenience. I shall attend to them shortly.”</p><p>Ser Morbert bowed,”Farewell, my lord.”</p><p>“Farewell,” Lord Baelish replied.</p><p>After Ser Morbert left the room, Lord Baelish gazed at Alayne for a long moment. </p><p>He then broke the silence,”I should like to attend their lordships’ summons. Do you have any further need of me, my dear?”</p><p>Alayne shook her head.</p><p>“Ser Oswell,” her father called. The old knight soon came, lumbering inside the doorway.</p><p>“I should like you to escort my daughter to her chamber,” her father ordered,”It is a merry night, but perhaps too merry for a young maiden to travel alone. I wish that you could make certain that she is not deflowered before her wedding in a fortnight. These are perilous times for all of us.”</p><p>Ser Oswell bowed his head,”Yes, m’lord.”</p><p>As she left the study with her guard at her side, Alayne looked back to see her father give her a lingering smile,”Farewell, my love. You make me proud.”</p><p> </p><p>It was near winter in the grounds outside the walls,but the fires of the Eyrie’s many torches made the halls as warm as spring. The columns and arches that adorned the side of the halls shone by their light. They were wrought of a pale white stone, the marble harvested from the sides of the Vale’s mountains. There were old stones and new, marble harvested by the Falcon Kings and marble of Lord Jon’s father who sought to renovate his halls. They never discarded the old, for they were dear to the hearts of the Arryn lords that wished to remember their past glories. They only strengthened the flanks of the old ones with new stones. The old was cracked and stained, and thin coats of imperfect mounds had ruined the smooth surface. However, it was more endearing to Alayne than the beautiful and perfect new ones. The wrinkles and nooks were warm and reminded her of home, but flat white marble only reeked of cold.</p><p>Ser Oswell walked at her side, one hand upon his hilt. He wore a cloak of black silk, his armour polished with a bright sheen. </p><p>“<em>A Kettleblack</em>,” Alayne thought,”<em>Dullard or not, my father should not have trusted me with him. His sons were Joffrey’s most loyal hounds. They were king’s men, and they did what the king commanded of them with all due loyalty</em>.”</p><p>“Ser,” she spoke to her escort. She wished to know of him. They revealed much to ladies and queens. They did not think much of little birds, as long as they could sing.</p><p>He turned his eyes on her,”M’lady, What d’you want of your knight?”</p><p>She plastered a sweet smile upon her face,”I am sorry for your loss, Ser Oswell. You rode valiantly. It was only by chance did Ser Arnold unseat you.”</p><p>His lips twitched in the shadow of a smile,”I have no  wish of that honour, m’lady. Even you know that I rode poorly, and me lance showed it. I am not the man that I was, and I know. I am old, and even me horse knew it. He carries me slowly, as if I were lumbering sack of shit.”</p><p>“M’lady,” he fumbled desperately,”I beg your pardon.”</p><p>“You still ride as well as your sons, Ser” Alayne spoke, knowing how poorly they rode,”You rode as bravely as any half your age.”</p><p>Ser Oswell gave a bitter laugh,”All me hope I placed in me three sons, and they failed me, like the useless swine that they are. If I were to sleep with a queen, I wouldn’t let a septon know. I’ve always wanted a daughter, after me and dear Betsy raised our three boys. A daughter is worth the trouble she’s caused, and not like to ruin the family name with their trouble. If Lord Baelish had not made me life rich, I would have thrown ‘em into the gutter ten years ago. Not worth the hassle, They’re not worth the hairs on a donkey’s bottom, so don’t compare me to them. I come out looking worse. You know as well as I how they fight. I admire your niceties, but a lady ought never to try and fool an old knight.”</p><p>Alayne was taken aback, but she composed her smile again,”My apologies, Ser.”</p><p>They rounded a bend, and the torches lit clearly the grizzled knight’s face. She saw an ugly scar adorn the cheek under his left eye. It was a deep fissure of darkness, red tendrils creeping onto the hale skin that were otherwise on his cheek. It scraped upon his cheekbone, catching the pure glare of the torches. The scar reached his eye, and the bottom lid was seared in two, not having healed together. Even the healed skin was either angry red or a plae white, pockmarking the tones of his face. Alayne did not avert her eyes, nor did she recoil.</p><p>“All sons are a blessing,” she said courteously,”and it is fortunate that my father preserved your house.” </p><p>“How did you enter the service of my father?” she asked.</p><p>Ser Oswell squinted his eyes in confusion, then answered her question,”Me family were potters in Flea Bottom. They took enough coin so we did not starve, though we still lived by rat meat and Flea Bottom stew at least once a fortnight. I was born then, a delight to me father who wished for a son. Me parents died when meself was isx, when the Prince o’ Dragonflies refused to take his bride, and Lord Stag cut a bloody path in his furious departure from the city. They named him the Laughing Storm, so I always wondered if storms laugh as they slay. I wandered Flea bottom as an infant, ‘til I was twelve, and picked up me first sword. I was leader of our haggard gang of street boys, but we were strong, and we always got food. When I was sixteen, I thought to sell my sword for greater prizes than a bowl o’ warm stew. I earned ‘nough gold to book a ship to the Free Cities, and sowed the Disputed Lands with me foes’ blood as a rider of the Second Sons. I knew Maelys the Monstrous,whose two heads commanded the two legions, and stayed long ‘nough to have drunk with the Red Viper. I sat out the Ninepenny Kings in Lys, though, as I knew the might of the king's men, and I served its next commander well, a stone-faced northman whose law was as unbreakable as the Red Keep’s walls. When I suffered this scar you see on me face, I thought I’ve tasted ‘nough blood. I thought to return to me home. I had saved ‘nough coin to carve out a life for myself. I met me wife, and we had our three boys. When they were still boys, Osney no older than ten, me coin ran out, and the price of oats rose in the Year of the Windfires. King Robert whored in his halls, uncaring as the folk starved. It was Lord Arryn that opened the stores to the folk of the city, but it was too little for all our mouths. It was kind Lord Baelish who found me sword, and offered me coin and a house if I would join his service. I took it gladly, and the lord always kept his promises. I swore meself to be his loyal man, for he treats us swords well, for all the days ‘til me last day.”</p><p>It was near the hour of the wolf when they arrived at her chambers. Ser Oswell stood guard outside the door, and Alayne entered her sparsely decorated quarters. </p><p>She undressed, and entered the warmth of her covers. Alayne laid her hair upon the soft creases of her pillow. The hearth burned warm, and her half-naked body felt not the chills of the snows as she lay beneath her blanket.</p><p>As she thought again of what her father’s words entailed, her heart filled with giddiness. By the fires that warded the cold from her chamber, she felt as if she were at Winterfell again. </p><p>She had a father again, and she was going home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. THEON</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A man came to him. He did not hear the cell door creak. When Theon opened his eyes, he saw only the gleam of the silver studs upon his jerkin. They were white in the moonlight. The rest of the man was cloaked in shadow until he stepped into the gloom of the dying torches.</p><p>The flames burned low, his guards not caring to rouse themselves to attend their prisoner. Theon felt the cold of Winterfell's walls crawling upon him again, the straw doing little to cushion winter's kiss. It was where he thought Lord Stark would pen him when he first arrived to be the northmen's ward. Perhaps that is what he should have done, for Theon did not deserve to be raised as a brother to the Stark children.</p><p>"<em>Ser Rodrik had been right</em>," he thought,"<em>If I died here a decade ago, or was not so close to Robb as to earn his trust, perhaps the Starks would still rule the North. Perhaps Winterfell would not have been ash. I ruined them. This cell is where I belong, and I will be glad to die here. The Starks will come again from their defeat. Stannis has won Winterfell. Jeyne is a Stark in name if not in blood. She fooled most of them. The name would pass on. And the turncloak who was their ruin will die</em>."</p><p>The soft light cast golden stripes that danced upon the satins until his eyes found their senses.</p><p>"<em>It is not satin</em>,"Theon thought,"<em>One would not care for beauty in the cold</em>." It was plain dark wool, and the fires now caught the gleam of his rough mail as well. Frost lay upon the steel sword that he drew, and it seemed that snow formed a crown of white upon his brow.</p><p>His eyes were haughty and proud, and they stared contemptibly at the wretched creature before him. He did not speak, staring at Theon as if judging a servant. </p><p>"Reek," he spat at last, his drivel flying to hit Theon on the cheek,"Worthless weakling." Theon saw beady eyes, a lean face, and his fingers burned with their phantoms. His hair was dark and beautiful, and his face could be judged as comely as Theon ever knew.</p><p>Theon knew that face. He had seen it that day in Winterfell, beneath a hooded cloak. It was the same face in the haunting snows.</p><p>The spit felt wet on Theon's cheek, and he dared to brush it with a stiff finger.</p><p>"<em>Lord Ramsay is dead</em>," he thought,"<em>I saw his head rotting on Winterfell's battlements. The castle is Stannis's now. The master is dead, but Reek still lives. The master would always be with Reek, wherever the servant was. The servant is faithful and dutiful. Theon remembers no chain. Reek remembers all. Reek would join his master soon</em>." Theon did not know whether Theon would remain. The turncloak would never feel Stannis's mercy, if the hard man had any in his veins.</p><p>"Are you Stannis's man?" he asked, his voice rasping.</p><p>The man did not answer his question at once, and paced two more steps,"Can I betray my king for a foreigner? Can the proud be slaves to those that claim to our friend, but in truth our master?"</p><p>"<em>No</em>," Theon thought,"<em>You are a proud man, yet that facade will not hold when you meet Stannis. When his might breaks you, you are nothing. You died a summer before, you and your honour and your duty. When the horn sounded, and your king burned, you did nothing. You let the foes into your home, and made yourself his servant. Only the corpse of that worthy man remains to stand now before Stannis, a ghost of what the North had been. No satin will hide that, no matter how pretty your face may be. Remember who you are. You are a greenlander. You are no captain worthy to lead his own. You are a northman, no matter what other titles you wear. But Winterfell is still not your castle. It was never your home. That is the home of Starks, the men you betrayed. You are a turncloak. Stannis will see that, and you will die</em>."</p><p>The mailed man brandished his steel, but Theon felt no fear now. He welcomed the everlasting sleep beneath the stones of his home, besides the crypts of his kin.</p><p>"<em>Besides Robb</em>," he thought,"<em>and Lord Stark when their bones are returned to their rightful halls. Mine do not deserve to be here, but I give thanks that fortune would make it so</em>."</p><p>The turncloak's name would deservedly rot in all the centuries to come, but he did not care anymore. Theon could not care. He could not be strong.</p><p>"Am I to be killed?" he pleaded. Warm fluid flowed from his frozen palms, and a drunken cloud consumed his head. His arms were weak, scarce enough to hold him sitting. They would never grasp a bow again. He heard the mournful howls of the hounds and a silent scream. Theon closed his eyes, and awaited the cold kiss.</p><p>The man's voice pierced their darkness,"Does Stannis deserve to deal you justice? You are a prince, and he is no true king. The Prince of Winterfell. This is your castle, is it not? Why should he deserve to slay you in the lands of your own rule?"</p><p>"<em>There are no princes</em>," Theon thought,"<em>Only ghosts that haunt the once merry stones. What prince burned his own castle?" </em></p><p>"You ruled here, Lord Theon," the man continued, drawling in vain mockery,"This castle you won with cunning and strength. You made judgement in these halls as its lord. Mikken. Farlen. All the folk you left to burn. And you made judgement outside these walls. The miller and his wife. Their two sons. But you were right and just, were you not? They were your slaves, and sworn to serve. If they plotted treason, if they did not satisfy Your Highness's will, you had every right to judge their death. You were their lord, the Prince of Winterfell. You paid for it with your iron price, and a buyer should get what he is due."</p><p>Theon did not respond, as he could not make a voice.</p><p>"You were to be king one day," the man chuckled coldly,"When your father died, the Prince of Winterfell would become Lord of all Ironborn. Winterfell would be your seat of power to rule over all the green lands. You would have a proper driftwood crown, not that iron monstrosity that you forged. Is that what you wanted, Turncloak? Is that what you wanted, child slayer? Is that what you wanted, for men to call you king, and raise their swords to hail your majesty as they did your brother? Did you not wish all that? Are you not the Prince of Winterfell?"</p><p>Theon felt the cold tearing at his throat, squeezing with a gentle wrath. He closed his eyes again, and smelled the ashen scent of tar. The last light of the candles died, and he heard the lampstand collapse.</p><p>"<em>No</em>," he decided firmly,"<em>I am no Prince. The Ironborn have never called me their heir. I am only Theon. Only Theon</em>."</p><p>He heard pounding steps approach, and a blade buried itself in his chest. Theon let him slay. He let him reap what was his. </p><p>Theon felt no pain as his skin parted as old leather on a wineskin. It was not blood that flowed, and he caught the salty scent of the seas gushing from his wound. The waves came in an endless torrent, draining his veins until not a drop of salt remained. Theon was free.</p><p>When he opened his eyes, the man was gone. The blade was gone. His wound as well. Theon's blood did not pool on the straw. They flowed cold in his veins, cold and frozen. </p><p>Theon saw only the remnants of the man's prints in the dust, and the ragged skin on his ankles ached with dim warmth.</p><p> </p><p>It was the next night when they came. He heard their steps pound on the stones of Winterfell's dungeon. They soon become part of the chorus that swelled into the same dull ringing in Theon's ears.</p><p>The dungeon held a barred window, where Theon saw the flames of Stannis's host celebrate their victory. Their shouts and cheers pronounced the same to Theon's ears as his own wretched breaths. He prayed that both would stop soon.</p><p>The lights outside had persisted through the day, and the night was made alive by their torches. The crimson of Stannis's fires bled into that of the moon and stars.</p><p>Theon sat and absentmindedly fingered a lone dark piece of soot from the last candle that had fallen. Theon's clothes were splayed with ash. He did not care, his senses slipping into the depths of the seas as he silently watched his prize draw trails of black upon his pale skin. </p><p>Only when the cell door open did Theon break from his trance. It disturbed his tranquility, for he had become accustomed to it as he lingered in the cell for days with naught else to do.</p><p>"<em>No</em>," he thought,"<em>I have been here for years. A life had passed since the red-cloaked man opened the door, and the wretch that entered is dead. The man who came in had a white beard and white hair, wrinkles adorning his ancient skin. The man who entered heard voices that whispered</em>."</p><p>"<em>The master is gone</em>," Theon thought giddily,"<em>I saw his head. He could slay the Prince of Winterfell. He could make Reek. But he could not slay Theon. Theon is alive</em>."</p><p>The cell had opened four times, a summer passing between each creak. The same guard who looked as a gargoyle came in every time, dropping a meagre helping of bread in Theon's lap. He was hungry now, the black pit within him wishing to devour, so he welcomed the man. The water from the melting ice on the dungeon wall could only fill a man so far.</p><p>Yet when the door opened, it was not bread that came, but another filthy man. </p><p>"Turncloak," the guard sneered,"Here's another of your kind. Though this has a rather pleasant smell about him, and does not reek of seaweed like you krakens."</p><p>They threw their prisoner before Theon, the man landing facefirst on the hard stone. He recognized who his new companion was. The new prisoner still wore the same dark cloak that bore the brass brooch of a harp. It was dirty, covered in the dust that sprang into the air as he was flung.</p><p>"<em>There should not be dust here</em>," Theon thought,"<em>Dust remembers. It should be only in the crypts, where the Starks still linger. In the keep and castle of Winterfell, there is only snow. Snow that is new. Snow that is ruin</em>."</p><p>"I'd wager," one guard jested to his companion,"on my sword that His Grace means to burn the turncloak first."</p><p>"It's hard to say," the other replied,"The Ironborn savage or the wildling one. I'd the Ironborn, to be rid of that stink."</p><p>They laughed, and the two guards swept their wool cloaks from the cell, the door singing sharply to give their leave. Theon heard the lock set into place, and his eyes found his new companion.</p><p>The other prisoner raised his matted head, the grey-brown streaks parting to reveal a face that was once handsome. His nose had been broken in the fall and oozed blood, but his sharp features still wore those fair lines of laughter that Theon himself had lost.</p><p>"Lord Theon," he greeted, his fair voice only slightly tarnished by his broken nose.</p><p>"Abel," his own voice was weak,"Why are you here? Why does Stannis wish to jail a singer."</p><p>The singer brought himself to a seat by the wall opposite Theon. He laughed, though his eyes spoke bitterness,"He would, if a singer was not all who the man is. If the singer was someone else. Perchance a wildling king. Perchance Mance Rayder. I suppose that they see me as muc ha turncloak as you. Perhaps that is the reason Stannis has thrown us together, traitors of like crimes. We will both be dead come the next night. I would not fear if it were by cold steel, but these flames tell otherwise."</p><p>"<em>Mance Rayder</em>," Theon thought,"<em>He is lying. He cannot possibly be the King Beyond the Wall, sinking to be a lowly pander</em>."</p><p>"<em>Though</em>," he reasoned,"<em>none would ever think me as the man who was once the Prince of Winterfell </em>.' </p><p>The rising chorus of shrill screams outside began to drown the singer's last words. </p><p>"<em>They are feeding men to that red god</em>," Theon thought,"<em>Bolton men that did not surrender. Perhaps even those that did, but were too deep in Lord Roose's favour</em>." </p><p>Theon said nothing, and the voices died to a dim echo as their bodies perished. He stared at the black dot upon his finger, his hand seeming frozen in time.</p><p>He looked the King Beyond the Wall in the eye.</p><p>"<em>He looked a king</em>," Theon thought,"<em>He is the man that I had thought my father when I sailed to Pyke all those years ago. A lord with wrinkled and strained brown eyes that were old and wise. A lord with grey streaks that were not as dim as the rocks on the beach. This man looks a man who had strength beyond his years, not as my father, who was truly old. This man still has his strength and sanity</em>."</p><p>A long silence prevailed, and Theon felt nothing but the cold wall pressing upon his back.</p><p>Mance Rayder turned his eyes to the sky beyond the small window, and began to sing.</p><p>The words resonated sonorously in Theon's windswept ears. He knew now how Mance's voice made a king. It had seemed only jolly at the time of Winterfell's wedding, but that had been a time of joy, and the singer had sung songs of pretty times then.</p><p>His true tone was deep and solemn, and his voice brought now majesty and memory.</p><p>"<em>He did not lie to me</em>," Theon thought,"<em>A king is his true tale</em>."</p><p>The wildling king sang in a tongue that Theon did not know, its words sombre and slow. Theon lost himself in the voice, and the other dim echoes died to the singer's sole tune. </p><p>Theon remembered the green plains beyond Winterfell's walls, when the season was still summer. He remembered the hooves of his brown destrier trodding the green grass, his brothers riding alongside him in tunics of blue and red. His true brothers, not those that had died in his father's war before he knew them. The ones that had sparred with him in the courtyard of Winterfell, japed with him amidst feasts, and made him feel a true man of the castle, before icy Lord Stark brushed that giddiness away.</p><p>They had rode across the fields for near a day since they left at dawn, and Robb and Jon wished to return to the warm hearths of their home. Only Theon remained to ride alone for a time. When he saw the White Knife, and the road's end, even he turned his horse to ride to Lord Stark. However, as the faint outlines of the walls of Winterfell came into his vision, he saw he had not been the last to return through Winterfell's gate. Robb had already passed to join his father and Theon's jailor, but Jon had returned to fetch him. The bastard stood waiting, seated on a graceful white stallion. It was one of the only times that Theon had seen Jon in red and blue, and Jon's Stark features ill fitted it. Their wardrobe had been Robb's idea, and Lady Catelyn had been furious later to see Lord Stark's bastard parading in her colours. The winds had howled then so that Theon could not have heard Jon's voice. The same winds whispered through the cell window as Mance Rayder sang, though Theon could hear the wildling king's every word.</p><p>"What tongue is it?" he asked as the echoes of the voice faded from the stone walls,"What song do you sing?"</p><p>"It's what we sing beyond the wall," Mance Rayder said,"You men of the south know little of the true North. It's of the Old Tongue, which your summer princes had forgotten. Only the free folk beyond the wall still recognize the old words. Though little know the letters, and the ones that do will die in twenty years. The few that know do not think it of import to pass on their art. Their numbers dwindle every generation, until they will be gone in a century, maybe less. At that time, even us, the last that remember, will forget the secrets of the ancient days. Though that does not matter at all, do you think? We are not like to live past this winter. All the squabbling realms of Westeros will not live to see the next spring. You southerners have forgotten too much. It is not by chance that when you build your cities of stone and craft, truth of the lands become myth and disappear. They die as men have risen. Magic was the life of the land. It is not by chance that it fades as men's might grows.</p><p>"I remember the boy Jon Snow," Mance Rayder continued,"a son of one of your Great Houses. He was of the Starks of Winterfell, the ones who were said to hold the most to their knowledge of old. It seemed that even that were too meritorious a praise for them. He thought giants and mammoths were only figures of legend, though the creatures of his lands were the only ones to walk Westeros. He never even truly knew his potential with his wolf, believing wargs the sorcerers of myth. A white wolf was exceptionally rare, and Varamyr would have slain the boy to steal it to be his seventh skin if I had not stayed his hand. He knew little of everything. There were no bastards beyond the wall, though he acted as one on every count. Do you know him?"</p><p>"Lord Stark raised me with his sons," Theon responded,"Jon Snow was like his father. He would never break a vow that he made with honour."</p><p>"Is it so?" Mance Rayder replied," Then perhaps I should not have been surprised when he proved a black crow at the very end. He proved a true bastard, though those of worth in the free folk never called him that by name. I should have cut out that bastard's heart and ate it. Yet as he lives his lies, I rot in this cold cage in Winterfell. Who am I to judge, for he made the right choice, and I the wrong? I wonder whether he will make it again? If not for the woman he seemed to love, who would he turn for? His sister? Or will my sister turn his heart to true love. Perhaps he will see that a wildling princess, as they name, would be much worthier to his dim eyes than a common spearwife. Is he loyal to King Stannis, who many name a false king, and his wife and daughter? I think so, for there is one thing I am certain that he is one and the same with the free folk. He is a fighter, and will not submit meekly to another's threatening power. That proved to be our bane. Perhaps it could be our gift as well."</p><p>"But that is another tale," he sighed,"It is not what you asked of me, was it? You asked me about the song I sing. This song is a song that I might have sung nightly should the gods have granted me a different fortune. It is a northern lullaby, sung by mothers to comfort their babes during the winter storms. There is magic in the words of the Old Tongue, elsewise a babe would not calm as snows drummed his walls. Dalla or I would have sung it to our son once, if all had made it south of the wall. If the Watch had seen sense. If they had not been conquered by fear, we could have served, and the true winter could have stayed the summer lands. In another world when fortunes were kinder, I could be warm in a hearth, swaying my son in my arms. Though doom has seen my fate. Dalla is dead, and my son in the peril of black cloaks and white. A wildling prince, as they name, would be nothing in the eyes of all free folk chieftains, but everything to me. Though I cannot do anything, for I am bid to die too, it would seem, on the morrow. This is the last song I sing, of what could have been."</p><p>"What does the song say? Theon wondered, thinking of the empty pleasantries that were sure to be the custom of lullabies.</p><p>"Here are the lyrics in the Common Tongue. It was named the Song of the Winter Raven, though I called it the Nameless Hero:</p><p>
  <em> No kingdom was wrought in the green days of old, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No men who hewed stones, and made steel that fell cold,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> In the sunlit white plains from ever bright hearths, </em>
</p><p><em> The only blade that pierced hearts was fair nature's own sword </em>.</p><p>
  <em> In a winter that passed ever dimmer than before, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> By winds that grew bitter in seven days of yore, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That blew the nest ragged of an honest black raven, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He cried in despair, for he had no true haven. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He sought to live free by the den of the hawk,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The fairest of beasts, the warmest of homes, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But her ill pride grew greater, and made then to mock, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The poor little raven that froze all alone. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He then sought the high hall of the great and just falcon, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The most noble of beasts, and his honour his call, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But his false mask grew frail, only kin has he took, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No place for the feathered raven who was ever so small. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He wailed in bleak pain, for his wings could not bear </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Another great travel, the last be his cost </em>
</p><p>
  <em> In the humble shunned halls of the shrewd but kind crow </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He found his warm home till winter was lost. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He thanked his last host, for his time had grown dire, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Any time more by cruel winds would make end his life, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The hero may lie not in favoured attire, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But in truth of heart that burns ever bright. </em>
</p><p>It tells a tale of a dreadful winter of ages past, of the times when beasts spoke and the winds had life. It was before the Age of Heroes, before the First Men, when the Children of the Forest nurtured Westeros. This was a winter not like any other. It was colder and darker than any before. The winds sang of death and the lingering doom. The nest of the raven was destroyed by the bitter gusts, so it sought another home lest it freeze in the cold. The raven fist came upon the den of the hawk. The hawk's feather's were the most majestic of all the beasts, and the fires of her halls were the warmest. She, bathing in the glory and desire of all that saw her, denied the wish of the little raven to join her halls. The raven then came to the halls of the great falcon. The falcon was the most respected of all the beasts, as he acted the most honourable. His halls were not as warm as the hawks, but were vast and accommodating, suitable for the raven to stay the winter. However, seeing that he was not bid to allow another kind into his hearth, the great falcon also rejected the raven. The raven's wings were now tired from all its journeys, and it could bear only one more flight. If its next host denied it entry, it could not fly to ask for another home. How the next host would receive it would mean its life or doom. The raven chose not glamour or respect for his last choice, but the humble dwelling of the crow. The crow was shunned by most of the beasts, and lived alone in a small roost. However, though there was little space, he took the raven into his hearth. The raven would live on, thanking its hero for his kindness. The crow never had the greatest flame, though he proved better than both the hawk and the falcon. Sometimes the darkest of places makes the greatest of heroes. The mettle of the worthy are not determined by power or wealth, but by the heart. It was to bring hope to the hearts of children to soothe them in the dread of a storm. There is always hope for the light,, no matter how dark the night."</p><p>Theon made to respond, but found no words. There was no place for the tales of heroes in his mind. He had lost all hope a summer before.There were no heroes for turncloaks and child slayers. </p><p>The hero had been Robb. The hero had perhaps even been Jon. Theon played the villain all his life. </p><p>"<em>But not for any longer</em>," he thought, relieved,"<em>I shall bear this torment no longer. I only pray that the flames slay me quickly, and show more mercy to me than they have shown the other men</em>." </p><p>Mance spoke no longer, gazing out at the star-strewn sky. The straw bit into Theon as he turned to do the same. The cell bathed in darkness, though a faint ray of starlight shone upon his tattered chest. </p><p>He saw the great fires rise to blind the white moon. As tendrils grasped the heavens, the stars bled.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. THE PRINCESS OF WINTERFELL</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the halls of Winterfell, Stannis Baratheon passed judgement. </p><p>It was Lady Arya Stark who sat the high seat of Winterfell's Great Hall. King Stannis had dispatched swift riders to recall the Stark girl. The castle had been claimed in the king's name, and King Stannis needed to rule. The lords of the North would be better suited to kneel before the king if a Stark stood at his side.</p><p>Most of her retinue had returned with her. King Stannis dispatched his riders the moment Winterfell was his, and it was only last midnight when the haggard host approached the North Gate.</p><p>Justin Massey was still bid to go beyond the sea to hire King Stannis's sellswords, for the war was long from victory. The smiling knight had not returned. Tycho Nestoris, the Iron Bank's crafty scoundrel, had though. He sat, glancing at how King Stannis would act his duty. His mouth twisted in a sneer, his thin hands clasping his purple robes.</p><p>"<em>Fools</em>," Asha thought,"<em>If these are the kind of men this Iron Bank boasts of. No weakling could ever claim the name of the Ironborn</em>." </p><p>Asha did not meet Alysane Mormont as she accompanied her lady, and she was glad that she never did. </p><p>The throne of Winterfell did not suit the Stark girl. She was not tall enough to rest her back upon the grand backrest lest her legs dangle. Her legs shook from the cold, and her face scrunched in fear. Her lean hands also shook, grasping desperately the direwolves that were her armrests. She was too small to sit in the great shadow that was the throne of winter. She appeared as a pearl in a cave, gentle and graceful upon what is hard and cold. Only the dark boulders thrived in the endless gloom. It was not her seat.</p><p>She remembered the girl that had come with Theon. Her eyes were sunken, her cheekbones shriveled. Her nose was black from frostbite. She had scarcely looked better than her brother with his white hair and mumbling lips. The daughter of Winterfell may have been a pretty creature in velvets and a southern greenlander court, but the northern lands had claimed her beauty. A pearl shines no brighter in the endless snows.</p><p>"<em>She is no Queen of Winter</em>," Asha saw that at least, remembering who the thrones had been originally intended for,"<em>She should never have been born a Stark, as Theon a Greyjoy. Her blood has not the cold ice to stay the chill, just as Theon's had not the salt to sail the seas as true Ironborn do. She was a lady meant for for the flattering words of the southern greenlanders</em>."</p><p>The Stark girl was not as Asha were, capable enough to be a queen.</p><p>All her majesty, she owed to the man at her side.</p><p>King Stannis had ordered another throne erected next to the Stark girl's. His men draped it in a Baratheon banner, but King Stannis had ordered it removed. Lady Stark had no banner adorning her seat, and he did not need any for all to tell that he was king. </p><p>"<em>King he may be</em>," Asha thought,"<em>the castle is still Stark's. The lords of the North will see it as such. Even a king is a guest in Lady Stark's house, fit only to sit at her side. Even if that is a place of honour, it is not the place of the master</em>."</p><p>Stannis's own men made the smallest portion of the army sworn to him. His forces had borne heavy losses in the battle outside Winterfell, many of the southern knights having been slain. The might of his host was made chiefly of the men of the north.</p><p>"<em>Men loyal to Winterfell</em>," she thought,"<em>Men loyal to the Starks</em>."</p><p>Though the Stark girl was not fit to rule, she was still a Stark. King Stannis could not overtake her to pronounce himself Lord of Winterfell. In her castle, he, though her king, would only rule at her side. The lords of the North had followed a Stark before a Baratheon, and that is still their will.</p><p>"<em>This Stark is not the Young Wolf</em>," Asha thought,"<em>King Stannis still has her in his palm. He is the power behind her worth. His words are her words. His majesty is her majesty. His command is her command. All that would truly change if Stannis sits the throne of Winterfell is a swap of chairs, yet that is too much for the proud Lords of the North</em>."</p><p>Winterfell was his, as was the North. Roose Bolton was dead, and the Bastard's head rotted upon a spike upon the castle's walls. The Bastard's own had slain him after the battle, betraying a lost cause to turn to Stannis's banner. All the lords and ladies that had served the flayed men either to serve at Stannis's beckon.</p><p>Also at hers. This was not King Stannis's last war, for the Iron Throne still lay in the grasp of the boy king. He would need ships to march south. The loyal Ironborn lords are not enough to retake the Iron Isles. She would also need the might of the North, and it is necessary for King Stannis to spare it for his own good.</p><p>The Bastard had planned to remove the throne altogether and carve his own banner onto the new. It was fortunate that he had not the time to do so, for it disgusted even Asha to see the banners of the flayed men even as they burned, nevertheless the northmen. The Bastard's notions, however, were as dead as his house.</p><p>She pitied the fat Frey wife and her newborn son, slaughtered like dogs by the Bastard. </p><p>"<em>King Stannis will see justice done</em>," Asha thought,"<em>There is much to judge this day of Winterfell's crimes</em>."</p><p>They had waited two days for Lady Stark to arrive. Now, King Stannis's judgement could begin.</p><p>The men of Winterfell said that the curse of the old kings lingered in the stones, strangling the futures of all its conquerors if their name was not Stark. From her brother to the Bastard, all have fallen bloody in their paths.</p><p>"<em>In the crypts, perhaps</em>," she thought,"<em>but I am not so much a fool to venture down there. Even in Pyke, the Drowned Crypts are forbidden to mortal men. Those were where the bones of my fathers lay, and only the priests could dare to go when they give the dead. Ghosts of ancient kings haunt those halls to hunger for others to join their eternal feast in the Drowned God's halls. Only when the dead were entombed could one venture into those crypts, for the ghosts ask for a price. To disturb their feast was to ask to join, and one needed to offer a price. It did not matter to the ghosts whether that price was living or dead. It is not by chance that only some priests return from their journey. But those that return from the crypts become the most honoured in the order. They walked amongst the souls of greater men beneath the sea, yet rose to live. They drowned, yet what is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger</em>."</p><p>"<em>There is no curse, however</em>," Asha thought,"<em>in the halls of mortal men. Above the earth, the ghosts of ancient kings are not my liege. Stannis is</em>."</p><p>Stannis was the Lord of Winterfell, the curse that strangled the futures of its conquerors. The Stark girl ruled at his side.</p><p>"<em>He would slay her foes</em>," she thought,"<em>He would make her reign free of her foes</em>."</p><p>As if in answer to her thoughts, a herald declared,"Lord Harwood Stout."</p><p>A finely dressed man was brought forth in shackles by two of King Stannis's guards. He knelt at King Stannis's feet, pleading for mercy and murmuring that he would bend the knee, would do anything for the crown.</p><p>King Stannis's face brimmed with dark fury. It had looked as pleasant as Asha had seen it when they had won the city, though now that was gone.</p><p>"It is your liege lady that you should plead to, Lord Stout," King Stannis spoke coldly,"It was her banner you betrayed."</p><p>The lord turned to the Stark girl,"My lady. I only knew to serve. I was sworn to the Lord of Winterfell."</p><p>"You were sworn to be true," the Stark girl said,"You were sworn to be... my bannerman. You stood by as Lord Ram... as the Bastard had his way with his wife. You were sworn to its lady, to the Starks, yet you abandoned your rightful... liege."</p><p>"As did Lord Manderly," Lord Stout argued,"As did Lady Dustin. I was sworn to Barrowton, and only followed Lady Dustin's orders. They turned their cloaks on the Starks, and only turned it again when His Grace King Stannis was victorious. They were untrue, yet why have I heard that they were not tried for treason. They decided to answer Lord Bolton's call, and I only followed. I only followed my liege's orders. I only did as I was bid by my duty as a vassal. I shall serve you with my truest heart should you give me the chance."</p><p>King Stannis's iron tone greeted his answer,"As truly as you served as you served the Boltons, no doubt. Bring in the witnesses."</p><p>His men brought forth a grizzled steward, a serving maid, and a tattered guardsmen. All sang the same tale.</p><p>Lastly, they brought forth one of the Bastard's closest confidants, a bedraggled man with rotten teeth and an ugly smirk.</p><p>"Who is this lord?" King Stannis asked.</p><p>"Ah," the man replied,"Him. The treacherous bastard. We knew that all of the lords of the North had hearts that lingered by that pissing stag. Lord Ramsay was merciful. He should have flayed you all as he had the chance. Instead, he gave you the chance to prove your loyalty on the battlefield. All you cowards turned and ran. Especially him. He swore himself to be Lord Ramsay's loyal man, his russet and gold banner bearing the greatest honour to be in company with the flayed man. Lord Ramsay had promised him Barrowton, for he knew Lady Dustin's treason. He knew their treason. All of them. He wished to give loyal men a chance. The lord gave him many honours, yet when the time came, he turned his cloak as all the others did. With all the other traitors, he murdered Lord Ramsay as he rode through the gate."</p><p>"I gave you this chance to prove your innocence," King Stannis said,"I did not consult the lords, for fear that they would tell your ill to hide their own. Yet all I hear is that they were true to their liege. You were the man to join yourself to the Bastard's banner. You were the man to slay in his name. You are the man who plotted treason against your king and sworn lady. How do you answer these charges?"</p><p>"Lies," he shouted,"I will be your truest man. I swear to all the gods."</p><p>"Swear all you like. You would do better to have held the oaths you swore to men."</p><p>"Unbeliever," Asha heard a shout,"We must give the Lord a gift."</p><p>"Traitor," shouted another, Asha thinking it being one of the northmen,"Cut his head and stick it beside the Bastard's. Let all men know the price of treason. To avenge the Young Wolf and all that fell at the Twins. To avenge the Starks."</p><p>The room sounded their agreement, until Ser Godry was forced to blow King Stannis's golden warhorn to silence them.</p><p>Asha gazed to the throne, and King Stannis glanced at the Stark girl.</p><p>"In the name of King Stannis of the House Baratheon," the Stark girl stood,"King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, King of Westeros, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Arya of the House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North, hereby sentence you, Harwood of the House Stout, Lord of Goldengrass, to die."</p><p>"She's Ned's girl," she heard the man near her whisper.</p><p>"<em>Perhaps</em>," she thought, if the winter did not break her.</p><p>The lord was led out to the dungeons, until the night when the fires will shine against the sky.</p><p>King Stannis and the Stark girl passed judgement to dozens more, some being pardoned whilst others sentenced to the fire or the sword.</p><p> </p><p>"Lord Mors Umber," the herald then declared.</p><p> King Stannis's face had lost some of its dark hue, but it was still as cold as ice.</p><p>Crowsfood lumbered into the hall with a dozen Umber men trailing behind his cloak. A young guardsmen bore the Umber sigil, the gates of the Great hall tall enough to allow the passage of banners.</p><p>The lord neared the platform, standing before Lady Arya's throne. He lowered his hood, revealing the snowy mane that was his beard. His dragonglass eye twinkled in the lamplight without its patch. The ravens outside grew silent, and the hall trembled with whispers.</p><p>Crowsfood withdrew from his cloak a gold band set with a ruby. He kneeled, and offered the band up towards King Stannis,"Your Grace."</p><p>Ser Andrew Fell, one of King Stannis's household knights, strode before Mors Umber. He accepted the band offered, and climbed the steps to King Stannis. He kneeled before the king, offering the band. King Stannis plucked it from his grasp, setting it on one of the armrests of his throne.</p><p>The ruby glowed eerily, hiding the foggy heart of its light. It seemed to pulse in concordance with King Stannis's words.</p><p>"Lord Umber," King Stannis spoke,"Your service has been invaluable in our victory. When the hearts greeting my arrival were still doubtful, you were one of the first to declare loyalty for his king. You served me in the manner that none other in the hall did. If not for you, we would still be starving outside these walls in a prolonged siege. It will not be said that I am not grateful for your duty inside Winterfell's walls, infiltrating the foe's defenses. It was only to your work that the bastard returned to face a Winterfell arisen to its true lords. It is by your work that his head rests now on a spike outside this very hall. There is no man who is worthier of reward. There is no man that can match your merit. I reward loyalty and duty. Ask of me what you wish, and you shall have it if it is in my power."</p><p>"A pardon for my brother," Mors said,"in his foolish choice to stand by the Boltons. I pray that Your Grace remember that our nephew and lord still remains in the hospitality of the Freys, and he made the choice so that the traitors would not cut off their hostage's head. I hope that Your Grace will see that my acts of valour shall make for his faults."</p><p>"Yours cannot," King Stannis responded,"But a pardon was promised, and I will not go back on my word. I cannot forget your brother's crimes, but I can forgive. However, I cannot give a promise as a gift. Name another desire."</p><p>"Very well," Mors Umber spoke,"Jon took our fighting men south to fight the Young Wolf's war. He had thought to return before the eve of winter, so that they gather our harvest. However, he declared Robb Stark king, and the war lingered. In Last hearth's fields, none remained to gather our yield. Our crops withered untended in the autumn snows, and I fear that our winter stores may not last the winter. I ask only for myself grain to last Last Hearth's families through the coming nights."</p><p>King Stannis nodded, and beckoned a steward to come over with a map.</p><p>"For your loyalty," King Stannis decreed,"I shall grant you all the lands from the Long Lake to the Last River. All its incomes and vassals shall be laid perpetually at the feet of the Lord of Last Hearth. These lands had been under dominion of the Boltons, but since they have proved treacherous, their lands are subject at your king's disposal. They are mine to reward a loyal man. You shall have the grain stores that the Boltons have gathered. If they prove to be lacking, you may come to Winterfell for the amount you require. These shall be your lands not only for this winter, but all the winters to come."</p><p>"<em>He doubled House Umber's lands</em>," Asha thought,"<em>Their power would dwarf those of the other lords now. If Umber is loyal, then all is well. However, if he chooses the path of the flayed men in coming years, the Stark in Winterfell must be more than a girl. Though Crowsfood ought to be satisfied</em>."</p><p>"I give my thanks, Your Grace," Mors Umber said.</p><p>A strapping young man came after Mors Umber. He was one of Crowsfood's retinue. A black beard had begun to form around the man's red cheeks. He was taller than Crowsfood by half a head, and his rugged nose was strewn with pimples.</p><p>"Your Grace," he said,"My lady."</p><p>"This is my great-nephew," Crowsfood indicated,"Jon's second son. His heir now that Smalljon had fallen by Frey hands. Hother and I were to be castellan until he would come of age. It was only by his youth that Jon did not take him south along with his brother. If Jon were to fall, then Othell would become Lord of Last Hearth. He showed his worth as an Umber man in the battle two days ago, or so I heard. I would hope that it is true."</p><p>"It is," Ser Godry said,"Her served with me in the horsemen vanguard as we charged the right flank of the foes. He was one of the first to break his lance against their shield wall, and felled half a dozen Bolton banners. He is a warrior of great promise. I have not a better man under my command."</p><p>"Then it is settled," King Stannis said,"Name one boon that I may grant."</p><p>"If I may be so bold," Othell Umber said,"I have heard of your fierce daughter the Princess Shireen. I admire her, for it is no weakling that would survive greyscale. It is no weakling that will make a queen. She has my respect and love from afar when I heard her name. I am still unwed, my father having never bothered to find a suitable betrothal. I ask for the hand of the princess. I would find no better match, and shall serve her loyally at her side."</p><p>King Stannis's voice was firm,"That is no longer in my power to decide. Shireen is already promised to another man, under the Light of the Lord. It is not in my power to break the Lord's seal."</p><p>Othell Umber did not advance any further, having already been too bold to try his luck.</p><p>"<em>He sought too well above his station</em>," Asha thought.</p><p>She knew who King Stannis had offered her daughter too. Brandon Norrey had still departed with King Stannis's two letters, for it was his will no matter the battle's victory or defeat. He had told her what the second letter contained. It still made her uneasy, for she lived now in these walls.</p><p>"<em>There is already a Lady of Winterfell</em>," she thought,"<em>and the last bastard who ruled here brought screams and blood</em>."</p><p>Asha felt as one of those greenlander maidens in those foolish songs, helpless to do anything of worth.</p><p>"I cannot offer my daughter's hand," King Stannis spoke,"but your valour should not be without reward. There are many battles to come, and I shall need worthy captains to lead my hosts. Would you like a command in my host in the war to come? It will be to serve at Ser Godry's side, as his steward and lieutenant. It is no meek offer to serve the supreme commander of my host."</p><p>"It is my honour, Your Grace," Othell Umber replied,"My sword is yours to command."</p><p>"Your Grace," Ser Godry said,"Our southern men would not follow a commander who is not a knight. I ask that for his valiance in the battle, he be granted a knighthood as well as a command."</p><p>King Stannis nodded,"Do you accept it, Lord Othell."</p><p>"I do," the young man agreed.</p><p>Ser Godry came forward to anoint him. Othell Umber bowed his head before the red knight. The knight drew his sword, and tapped the flat of the blade on Othell Umber's shoulders.</p><p>"In the Flame of the Lord, I charge you to be a bearer of the torch, a wielder of the holy fire, a champion of the righteous. In the Light of the Lord, I charge you to shield the pious, break the sinful, and be the light that shines against the endless night. In the Name of the Lord, I charge you to be loyal to your oaths, brave against your foes, a shield that guards the weak and innocent. Do you swear this all, on your honour as a man of justice and piety, of strength and virtue, to break all evil and brighten all the days to come?"</p><p>"I do."</p><p>"Rise, Ser Othell. A knight of the Lord of Light. A knight of the Seven Kingdoms."</p><p>He rose, the firelight dappling on his pale skin, and Asha saw King Stannis's head nod slowly, almost imperceptible to another eye.</p><p> </p><p>Many other honours were given in the hall as the sun neared its peak. </p><p>Betrothals were arranged, gold was rewarded, and land given to the lords who were true to King Stannis in his tireless march. Lady Arya would timely offer a word, but the men sought the reward of their king.</p><p>Anlancer Sormeon, a sellsword sergeant who had risen to prominence for slaying the Bastard's right-hand man as his cavalry broke the foe's flank, had been awarded the command of the sellswords as its new captain. He was paid twice the worth of the bribes that swayed the loyalty of his predecessors.</p><p>Near a hundred new knights were made by Ser Godry and the other southrons. King Stannis decreed that it was not necessary to stand vigil. However, the stubborn lot, both those of the north and the south, insisted upon standing in the cold for a night to prove their strength.</p><p>"Lord Wyman Manderly," the herald then declared, and the fat lord waddled into the hall, supported by two young men-at-arms.</p><p>He knelt, or tried to before Lady Arya's throne, his knee cracking resoundingly on the stone floor.</p><p>"My lady," he said.</p><p>"Your Grace," he turned to King Stannis,"I see now why Lord Davos had been so loyal. Your majesty is unparalleled."</p><p>King Stannis pursed his lips," Spare me the flattery, my lord. I heard that you slew my Lord hand most unjustly to please the usurpers."</p><p>Lord Manderly shook his head,"It was only a farce to fool the lions who had my son. I killed a lookalike in Lord Davos's place, to be his mummer and die in his stead. the man who was killed was a convicted criminal already marked for death. I cut off the first joints of his fingers to match that of Lord Davos's. You may have heard that I hung a pair head and hands outside White Harbour to please the lions. That rumour is true, and they returned my son home. Lord Davos is also alive and well. He is living the life of a lord in the Merman's Palace, feasting on shelled delights and fish cakes. He has no lack of wants in my hospitality, and he may return to your service at any time. I declared for the lions in name only, whilst my heart was always with the wolves. I forged in secret the designs for the fall of the traitors that slew my son who was under the protection of guest right. I made an agreement with Lord Davos to serve the true king, to win my true liege, the Starks, their rule in Winterfell. I entered the devil's maw willingly, to strike within the heart of the foe and unravel it. I remained, to bide my time until such when my swords could turn against the flayed men and strike their death blow. This farce is done. My design is now done. My men marched with yours to break the Bastard's host. My swords aided Your Grace in battle, to defeat the foe both in Winterfell and out. Now, the castle belongs again to its rightful liege, and my heart is sated. I did not let down the graves of my fathers who owed the Starks everything. I can die a true man. I can die now a king's man, a servant of Winterfell. My wish is done."</p><p>The hall was silent for a long moment, and Asha saw lights dance in King Stannis's eyes. The king stared unblinkily at Manderly,"Arise, my lord."</p><p>Lord Manderly did, sluggish as his servants propped him up.</p><p>"When Lord Davos returns with his charge fulfilled," King Stannis spoke,"then I shall judge your fate. If his words prove the same, then I shall trust in yours that you committed no true treason. Until then, you may join my banner with all your honours intact."</p><p>"Thank you, Your Grace," Lord Manderly replied.</p><p>"My lord," Lady Arya said.</p><p>"Yes, my lady," Lord Manderly said.</p><p>"I am yet young," she spoke,"and unlearned in the ways of rule. My brother left me a kingdom in tatters. The North is upon the eve of winter. I cannot survive the coming years on my own, a girl with little knowledge of being the Lady of Winterfell. It was always my brother Robb's duty, and Bran's and Rickon's if he passed without heirs. Even if they all fell, it would have been Sansa who would inherited before me. It was never my place to be the Wardeness of the North, to rule it in times of peace, much less these times of ruin. I would need a strong hand to guide me through the years until I come of age. I would need a trusted regent to aid my rule. I ask that you, Lord Manderly, take up this duty. Would you grant this wish, my lord?"</p><p>"You honour me beyond words," Lord Manderly replied,"If that is your will, then I shall eagerly accept."</p><p>Lady Stark rose, and marched regally down the steps to stand before Lord Manderly.</p><p>The fat lord quickly knelt, and Lady Stark offered him her hand.</p><p>He kissed it, and swore fealty.</p><p>As Lady Stark ascended to return to her throne, Lord Manderly and his retinue withdrew to a side of the hall.</p><p>"<em>What of Brandon and Rickon Stark?" </em> Asha wondered,"<em>It is sensible to not speak of the boys whilst some in hall may still harbor doubtful loyalties, but how shall King Stannis spare Theon if none know the truth</em>.'</p><p>"Lady Barbrey Dustin," the herald declared again.</p><p>Asha's fingers itched as her retinue entered, rubbing her palm in anxiety against the bench. </p><p>Lady Dustin shot her a knowing glance with her stern eyes as she passed, and Asha felt frost kiss her cheek.</p><p>The Lady of Barrowton wore a gown of black velvet fastened sharply at the neck. She gave Asha a small smirk, and the kraken's daughter edged away in her breeches and mail.</p><p>Lady Dustin came before the king and the Lady of Winterfell, curtseying. </p><p>"My lady," King Stannis began,"You betrayed your lord to join Bolton, and you betrayed him when his time was direst to join me. What use shall I have of you under my banner."</p><p>"I did not do it for you," Lady Dustin replied,"I did it for the Starks."</p><p>That seized Asha's interest, and she piqued her ears to hear.</p><p>"I came here once before," Lady Dustin began,"in another winter. Another life. When the dragons still ruled. It was before your brother was king, and Lord Rickard sat the throne of Winterfell. It was when Brandon was still his heir. I had been half a maid, still blooming my moonblood, when I visited the castle then with my father. It was there where I met the heir to Winterfell, the dream of all the northern maidens at the time. I loved him, as any maid would have loved the fair and valiant Wild Wolf, the heir to the North. I had been a fool, and reached for what was not mine to have. He gave what I wanted. Yet it was more than pleasure that he gave that night. He gave me a son."</p><p>She looked around at astonished faces,"Have you ever wondered why the honourable Eddard Stark would bed a whore when he was already married to his wife? It is because Jon Snow was never his bastard. It was his brother's. The Lady of Barrowton could not raise a bastard whilst she was married to Lord Willam. For the love that he bore his fallen brother, Lord Eddard took my son to raise as his own. When Lord Eddard visited me after my husband's fall at the Tower of Joy against the Kingsguard knights, he thought they had taken too much from the maid that loved. He offered to wed Benjen to me. I refused. I could not ask any more of House Stark. They gave me honour that I could have never had otherwise."</p><p>"I would have raised my banners," she continued,"to oust Bolton and his bastard from their treasonous gains if I could. Ramsay Snow had killed his brother Domeric, who I raised as my own son, and Bolton allowed it. They betrayed their king. They betrayed the trust of the Starks that I loved. But I knew that I could not. I had not the strength. I had to make this farce, plead my loyalty to gain Bolton's trust. I had to, until I had the strength to challenge his power and vanquish it. I did it for my son at the Wall, who Bolton would have surely slain if he had not other counsel. I did it for House Stark, to shield Lady Arya, the last of her line. It was what little I could do to repay them. With his trust, I found Lord Manderly and Lord Umber, to aid in Your Grace's battle and restore my lady to your rightful place."</p><p>"Bolton passed several days before. His servant found him in the dawn dead in his bed, the taste of nightshade upon his lips. Whether it was the bastard, his servant, or mayhaps even himself I cannot say. His bastard took command, and ordered a foolish sally to crush Your Grace's men. He was bold, and an even greater fool. He said that he would have my skin after he returned triumphant in the same breath in which he asked for the aid of my levies. Our men saw the chance to usurp traitors and return the castle to its rightful lords. We slew the bastard, and I saw my son's kin home."</p><p>"<em>She is Jon Snow's mother?"</em> Asha wondered.</p><p>"Your grace," a messenger interrupted King Stannis's calculating gaze. Asha turned her eyes to find a fur-clad man panting for breath.</p><p>"The wildling king is gone," he gasped, exasperated,"The Turncloak is gone.</p><p>"<em>Theon</em>," Asha thought,"<em>Who will have cause to take him? </em>"</p><p>A dire realization came unto her,"<em>Northmen who think that he slew their princes, taking their revenge</em>."</p><p>In the silence that greeted the messenger's tidings, all eyes in the hall fell upon her.</p><p>"Fools," King Stannis said,"If she arranged her brother's escape, why would she stay in this hall?"</p><p>"Then who..." Asha heard a murmur arise.</p><p>A man rose from another bench. He wore a fur cap and a brown cloak that blended into furs of his companions. He was only a glimmer eyes before he disappeared, but his one act froze him in her memory.</p><p>He pointed at Lady Stark.</p><p>"That is a mummer. That is not Arya Stark."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. MELISANDRE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The chamber was cold, but the fetters upon her wrists and ankles were colder.</p><p>It was more a cell, not unlike the frozen crevices beneath the halls.</p><p>She prayed to the Lord for warmth. The red choker remained as cold as ice, the Lord’s flames unable to pierce the gloomy spell of the Great Other. She was not certain if she wanted what she asked. Melisandre did not know whether his pure light could visit and cleanse her broken form.</p><p>She had given her flame unrighteously.</p><p>“<em>The Wall has already fallen</em>,” she thought,”<em>The Great Other’s curse has already taken root in the Watch’s ranks</em>.” </p><p>Melisandre remembered that mad cackle, ringing raucously on the ice. There were three that took her, each one more vicious than the last. Each wore a black cloak. Each was sworn to be a man of honour.</p><p>The shadow of the bitterest north had consumed them, betraying their sense to embrace darkness. </p><p>The first was a thin, sneering man with a smirk as crooked as a weirwood. His eyes were two blue gems, having already joined death’s cause when he had been the first to stab his Lord Commander.</p><p>The second was a young lanky man with pimples on his face. He was short, but his arms were strong.</p><p>It was his dry chuckle of the last man that she remembered. She felt still his roughshod hands.</p><p>They had tarnished the Lord’s flame, but the servants of the Great Other have no remorse. They are already lost to the Halls of Darkness.</p><p>Melisandre sat frozen, huddling the red cloak that was once glamorous around her wretched  breasts. All her powders lay splayed on the wooden floor, most joining their potency to its impurity. They would not be of any use in any case, even if Melisandre had the Lord’s blessing to use them.</p><p>The red priestess could make no flame. She had lost the Lord’s cause, and her king’s. Lady Selyse and the young queen had been taken hostage by treasonous swords, ready to be given to the bastard of Winterfell.</p><p>She had been a fool to believe that she had the power to change the course of doom. King Stannis did. Lord Snow as well. King Stannis rotted beneath the ice of the lands outside Winterfell. Lord Snow was betrayed by his brothers, the corpse having bled out in the middle of the night. </p><p>There was naught to salvage. Their corpses were beyond her reach, in the house of the Lord. </p><p>Melisandre had not the Lord’s favour. She was powerless to stop the Lord’s chosen from meeting their ghastly end. Greater powers than her played dice on Westeros. It was her folly to think that she could do more than she was bid. Melisandre had failed even that. It is<em> just </em> that she be punished. </p><p>“<em>Winter came</em>,” Melisandre thought,”<em>and our efforts were as leaves in a storm</em>.”</p><p>She remembered the white wolf’s grey eyes. They had turned the same sheen as his former master’s after he fell. They had glared in sombre distaste amidst the falling snows. They knew that Melisandre had failed for the final time.</p><p>Melisandre saw the same now, as she sat unmoving, staring at the black orbs of a dying man.</p><p>Ser Narbert Grandison was old, elsewise King Stannis would not have left him at Eastwatch while his host assaulted the wildlings at Castle Black. House Grandison had sworn to the usurpers, yet Ser Narbert remained true. He was the steel of his house, the only man brave enough to fight for the Lord’s chosen when it seemed that darkness would prevail. The knight had served loyally in the Blackwater, and The king judged that he had not the strength, so he left him to guard his queen. He did his duty to the last.</p><p>“<em>He would have been better served to have died with his king upon the ice</em>,”she thought,”<em>Facing a valiant end instead of a traitor’s sword in the back</em>.”</p><p>Ser Narbert had been betrayed with the queen as the false knights rose in treason. One of Ser Axell’s men brought a sword into the loyal knight’s back, leaving a gaping wound to bleed out into the snow. He had fallen with one stroke, his age speaking their ill. She did not know why they had brought his dying body into her chamber instead of leaving it in the burning pile of corpses outside.</p><p>The old knight’s calloused hand gripped hers with a strength she did not know he had. For the past hour, he lingered on the edge of the night. She patched his wound, but could not do much else. The Lord could heal him, but it is wise to let some pass. All men must die, and what is gone should not come back.</p><p>“<em>Only the Great Other brings them back</em>,” she thought. It is not by chance that the ancient mages who held those arts were shunned by the order. Necromancy is true witchcraft. When the soul passes, it is gone. The only thing that returns is the mortal body. A wight, mindless and empty. Void of anything but cold.</p><p>The knight’s grey beard had begun to turn white as the frost of the Wall set in, though soon all of him would join the everlasting snows of winter. His eyes were glassy as they stared not at her, but the sky beyond the ceiling. He had been murmuring incoherent phrases all her time with him.</p><p>“Hugh,” he muttered,”Brother. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you fancied her, else I’d have been much more careful. I didn't mean to ruin her dress and sully your name. That Selmy bastard got her. He charmed her into his chamber, and left her when he was done, with her honour stained. She married his cousin for there was none other who would take her. But there was. A lord of Grandview. But she would not consider your name. I’m so sorry.”</p><p>He turned his head, and his eyes found hers. He suddenly tried to sit up, but it was a futile effort. It only made the bloody bandage redder. </p><p>Melisandre steadied him. His eyes found focus again, this time upon her,”My lady? I’m so sorry. It was not my brother’s fault. Don’t think of one for the other’s errors. Forgive this slight. I beg you. He loves you. More than that Selmy ever would. Please. I’m so sorry.”</p><p>“<em>He lingers in the past</em>,” she thought,”<em>in the cold of regret and failures. He cannot, lest he be consumed by the Great Other’s embrace. I must burn it away</em>.”</p><p>She pressed her palm to his and said a prayer. The only torch seemed to grow stronger, bathing them in the Lord’s fire. For a moment, the cold was dispelled.</p><p>“Ser, awaken,” she said,”I am not your ghost.”</p><p>His eyes found their light,”Lady Melisandre.”</p><p>“Ser,” she replied.</p><p>“Are the queen and princess safe?” he asked.</p><p>“They have not been harmed,” she replied,”but the traitors prepare to send them to the Bastard of Winterfell.”</p><p>She had not heard of the queen or the princess ever since she entered her cell, but the loyal knight would need comfort in his last moments.</p><p>“I cannot help them,” he gasped,”I could not be true to the Lord of Light.”</p><p>“You’ve already done him the greatest service that you could,” Melisandre replied,”Rest easy, for you have fought and served valiantly. You are one of the few true knights in this world. You can rest now. Let others bear the burden, and take the mantle of the wars to come. For you, the Hall of Light and eternal bliss awaits.”</p><p>The old knight nodded, and closed his eyes. </p><p>At the break of evening later that day, the winds howled a mournful song. When the faint torch burned the last of its wax and the room fell into shadow, the dying knight drew his last breath.</p><p> </p><p>The next morning, she was awakened by the crack of the lock upon her door.</p><p>As she heard a youthful grunt, her heart leapt into her throat. However, when the door opened, it was not him who entered. A black cloak walked into her cell. She shivered as she thought of why he would have come.</p><p>The last time they had come, it was to remove the body of the knight. Ever since, her only companion was the sighing breeze.</p><p>She dared not sleep in the bed, for it had borne a dead man. Her eyes did not close ever in the night, watching as her soul shrivelled and her skin grew pasty white. She did not bother to tend the hearth, so it burned out. The Watch did not return to light it again. Melisandre froze into dull emptiness as the Lord’s blessing left her veins to welcome the Great Other’s curse.</p><p>The man who had come swept aside his hair to reveal the soft face of a boy. Dark curls ran down his face, forming ringlets that were graced by snow. His body was lean and leathery. He was not tall, and his shoulders not wide, but Melisandre was not to be fooled again by an ungainly appearance.</p><p>It was Lord Snow’s personal steward, the boy they called Satin. A hint of stubble had begun to appear on the steward’s chin, and his arms were strong from days of training on the bow</p><p>He carried a tray which bore a plate and a flask. Satin set it down before the Watch’s prisoner. </p><p>Melisandre saw what was offered to her. A lone biscuit of bread accompanied a steaming cup of broth.</p><p>She stared transfixed at it, unmoving.</p><p>“<em>What good would it do?” </em> she thought,”<em>Food gives life, yet what shall I live for? All the Lord’s designs through me have failed. It cannot heal what I have lost</em>.”</p><p>As Stain made to leave, Melisandre flung forward and grasped his arm, her hood flying off.</p><p>“Who killed the Lord Commander?” she demanded.</p><p>“<em>Names</em>,” she thought,”<em>I need names. Names that the Lord will curse</em>.” </p><p>Stain revealed a startled face, and he took a quick glance at the door. She did not let go.</p><p>“M’lady,” the steward said,”I must go.”</p><p>“Please,” she tried desperately,”for the love you bear him. Tell me.”</p><p>“There were six,” he whispered,”Wick Whittlestick was the first knife. The others followed. Bowen Marsh. Othell Yarwyck. Left Hand Lew. Alf of Runnymudd. And… “ </p><p>He hesitated, but then spoke almost inaudibly,”And Eddison Tollett.”</p><p>A voice suddenly rang from outside the cell,”Boy. Are you rutting with the whore? It’s taking you bloody long.”</p><p>“I have to go,” Satin spoke, and his thin shadow left the cell.</p><p>Melisandre still ate her meal, leaving the empty plate and flask upon the wooden floor.</p><p>“<em>I was a fool</em>,” she thought,”<em>to ask for the petty names of those accursed. They are only the lowest of the Great Other’s servants. To defeat them is nothing. The Lord wishes to defeat the night, unravelling the eternal curse upon the realm. I must dwell on greater matters. I must find the brightest fire, the Lord’s chosen to lead us in this struggle. I must not dwell on darkness, but the light that shall vanquish it. I will find the truth of shadows and kings</em>.”</p><p>She dared again to venture near a torch. Melisandre has failed the Lord, but she will ask his forgiveness one last time. She would ask for the flames one last time, for the Lord to grant her a path of which she may tread. The red priestess prayed fervently that the Lord would give her this chance.</p><p>“<em>I was certain it was King Stannis</em>,” she thought,”<em>The fires told it to be, yet he was a man in the end. He was the same as all others that fell to darkness. Perhaps I was wrong. My sight was poor. The Lord shields only the pure. King Stannis was mortal, and succumbed to the shade of man the same as any other king. He cannot bring the pure future that the Lord made free of sin and night</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Who is Azor Ahai?” </em> she pondered yet again,”<em>I saw snow. Only snow</em>.”</p><p>She thought again to the white wolf. His eyes had been red before, but they were gray now, as gray as the Blackwater’s stones. The realization came unto her.</p><p>“Show me Azor Ahai,” she prayed to the fires.</p><p>The Lord granted her a vision she had seen before. Snow, only snow.</p><p>But from the fog of white, she saw a figure emerge. It was someone she had also known before.The blue-eyed king rose again, this time mightier, his sword sharp enough to shear mountains in two. His blue eyes were shining orbs, and his hair became flame. The king smiled, and the snow blinded his form once more.</p><p>“<em>I</em><em> need not bring back a wight </em> ,” she thought,” <em> The snows tell the truth. Snow will slay the King of Night. And the man by that name never died</em>.”</p><p>Melisandre collapsed, relieved. The Lord had not forsaken her. Yet the times are even more dire. He showed her no hero, for there was none yet that still lived. The deathly darkness of the blue-eyed king would swallow all.</p><p>“<em>This hero I must make</em>,” she thought,”<em>Where is that white wolf?” </em></p><p>Satin returned that day to deliver another meal, but he sealed his tongue even as she asked.</p><p>It was the next day before the steward opened his mouth,”We can speak at length. Wick Whittlestick isn’t at the door now. He tumbled off a balcony. Broke his arm and half his ribs. Clydas thinks he won’t survive.  It’s Horse, my friend from the initiation, who’s at the door today. He’s trustworthy, and won’t spill any secrets.”</p><p>“Who holds command at the Wall?” Melisandre asked.</p><p>“Lord Bowen Marsh as of this moment. He has instructed Clydas to send ravens to all the other castles so that the election may be held. Though Yarwyck thinks that with winter on the horizon, the other Night’s Watch lords would agree to forgo the election until the next spring. He thinks that only Lord Pyke and Lord Mallister’s approval would be able to seal his position. Other castles may be commanded by Lord Snow’s friends, but they think that their strength is too little to challenge the Watch if Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower stand with Castle Black. Word would still have to be sent, though, of Lord Snow’s… treason. Bowen Marsh claims that they slew their Lord Commander for a just cause. He’s promised peace to all the brothers, regardless of past loyalties, as he ascended to the post of Acting Lord Commander. He vows to lead us sensibly into the winter and right Lord Snow’s wrongs.”</p><p>“What of the wildlings?” Melisandre asked,”Have they really marched north and forsaken Lord Snow.”</p><p>“Lord Snow is dead,” Satin replied,”Chief Tormund said that there is no use fighting for a corpse. He cares more for the souls of Hardhome to risk another battle. He made peace with Marsh, and marched beyond the wall with the chief wildling force. Though Lord Marsh thinks that they mean to gather their strength so as to break Castle Black. Lord Marsh plans on sealing the gate to prevent the wildlings from returning. He says that we do not have enough rations to feed what mouths Hardhome has to offer if they ever return. He would have instructed the other castles to do the same, if Lord Yarwyck had not stayed his hand. Lord Yarwyck reminded him that it would be a travesty to waste good men who could otherwise serve on the Wall. He reminded him that other wildlings serve on the Wall, and will take kindly to the Lord Commander denying others passage. The new Lord Commander could treat with the Lord of Winterfell. If they could not secure supplies, then they could order Yarwyck to seal the gate. He shields the Lord of Winterfell’s northern border, after all. Clydas had sent a raven to Winterfell last evening, with all of Lord Marsh’s will.”</p><p>“How did you come to know all this?” she pondered.</p><p>“I served as Lord Tollett’s steward. He had been present at their meetings,” Satin answered.</p><p>“What did Marsh say in the letter?” she asked.</p><p>“That he will meet the Lord of Winterfell’s demands,” Satin said,” Lord Marsh believes that the wife Lord Bolton speaks of, as well as that Reek would arrive at Castle Black soon if Lord Bolton had demanded it of them. He means to send you, the princess, and the queen to Winterfell. Lady Val had fled in the chaos of Lord Snow’s death. Black Bernarr saw her last, riding south upon a single steed. She took her nephew, the wildling prince. She means to join Sigorn at Mole’s Town, who had prepared to march with his lady to claim Karhold. Lord Marsh has decided to cut the food to Mole’s Town by half, threatening to starve them unless they deliver Lady Val and her babe. Lord Marsh judges that since King Stannis is dead, the Watch is the only bridge between the wildlings and the Lord of the North. If he is successful in procuring all of who the Lord of Winterfell wants and receives his aid, Lord Marsh will restore the supplies and allow the wildlings passage back south of the Wall. If he fails, then he said that he must do whatever it takes to preserve the Watch. The brothers respect him, and look to him as our leader.”</p><p>“What of the traitors that were King Stannis’s men?” she asked again,”Who else takes command in Castle Black?”</p><p>“Lord Axell and Ser Benethon stand with Lord Marsh. The queen and the princess are also confined to chambers in this tower. They wish to pass south to their homes, and hope that Lord Bolton would be generous enough to grant it if they prove their loyalty to the crown. They also would like to be in Castle Black when the Weeper attacks. Ser Alliser has been appointed First Ranger for his successful ranging, but Lord Marsh had no other man to pass it to. Lord Yarwyck is still First Builder. As Lord Marsh ascended to the position of Acting Lord Commander, Lord Tollett was named Lord Steward in his place in order to please the men that were loyal to Lord Snow to the new command. They have secured the Watch. The brothers believe in Lord Marsh’s designs. Lord Thorne has their respect. Lord Yarwyck seniority. Lord Tollett their love. Castle Black was about to implode at Lord Snow’s death, but now the kettle has cooled.”</p><p>“<em>This hope is lost</em>,” Melisandre thought,”<em>Men forget too easily their true foe. Lord Snow saw it, and planned to march on Winterfell. The Wall is nothing without the North. The Boltons are usurpers, not to be trusted. Now, the last flame of the Watch has gone out. I was the greatest fool to trust in this order</em>.”</p><p>“Thank you, Satin,” she said.</p><p>“Where is Lord Snow’s wolf,” she added in a whisper.</p><p>“Ghost?” he answered in the same tone, catching her meaning,”What of the wolf?”</p><p>“Can you bring him to me?” she asked.</p><p>Satin hesitated, then slowly shook his head,”It was my pleasure, m’lady, to attend to you. I really must go at once. Lord Marsh and Wick Whittlestick had been doubtful of my loyalty at first, for I had been Lord Snow’s personal steward. It was Lord Tollett who vouched for me. He said that I did no wrong except serve under the wrong man, and saved me from the noose. I cannot give them reason to doubt Lord Tollett’s word. Farewell.”</p><p>“Farewell,” she answered.</p><p>There was no window in her cell, the only light being the flicker of the torch. As Satin retreated, his shadow shortened until it became one with his lamplit form. A bright glimmer danced on his black cloak.</p><p>“<em>A true man</em>,” she thought,”<em>amidst a false host. Even the brightest stars hide their light in mud. What of a boy having scarcely grown a beard, cast in a battle far greater than him? He cannot prove a hero, but his deeds are still pleasing to the Lord’s eyes. He still has a glimmer of hope, unlike the others</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Unlike another</em>,” Melisandre thought,”<em>Another boy, yet more foolish. Too alike his father. Too alike in the sins that will win him only doom</em>.”</p><p>That boy that had cast aside his loyalties for a petty wish. All had to sacrifice, and Melisandre had the most of all. She lost everything, even the gift that would make a woman. The boy had sight, yet that was only of the past. He had not the strength to claim his duty, to bathe in glory and honour. He had not the strength to be a hero, and be a part of the Lord's designs for the future.</p><p>He could not see past his burden to the greater light. When the final battle approached, he had deserted his post. The Great Other welcomed him into eternal doom.</p><p>The Great Other would embrace all of them. Those that only knew of their mortal squabbles, and not the winter that will soon engulf the realm.</p><p>“<em>If the king be not Azor Ahai</em>,” Melisandre thought,”<em>He was still true to his cause. A man need not be the greatest hero to march upon the side of light</em>.” </p><p>His blood is still the blood of the Lord’s chosen.</p><p>“<em>The traitors mean to give the queens to the usurpers</em>,” she thought,”<em>They mean to give me as well</em>.”</p><p>Darkness had seemed to prevail. She had lost her faith in its dreadful coming.Yet that is where heroes emerge. King Stannis had been the least of the five kings, yet also the greatest. He had been the only worthy man of them all. </p><p>Melisandre could not fall into gloom meekly before the storm. She had done that once before, and it proved to be treacherous. She must see the Lord’s will done, and she shall. The red priestess had her duty, and she shall see it done.</p><p>Satin’s words had moved her. Castle Black was not firmly in Marsh’s hands. </p><p>The wildlings had been savage northmen, learned in only the ways of lust and lechery. They were followers of the Old Gods, sons and daughters of the Great Other. They had been sinful, and could not see the light.</p><p>Yet all men could have the Lord’s forgiveness if they prove true. Marsh had blundered, as the traitorous Watch was weak. The wildlings could prove the queen’s ally, and break the strength of treason should they choose to march on the Wall. The wildlings that were at the castle were gone, yet many more manned the Wall. Mole’s Town was only half a night’s ride from the castle. Sigorn was Lord Snow’s man. They would not give up the wildling princess and her nephew easily. </p><p>“<em>Fire</em>,” she thought, as her choker warmed with heat for the first time in days. The Watch had lost its way, yet the night was always darkest before the dawn. She had been a fool to lose faith. The Lord had designs that mortals as she could not see, yet they were there. She must have faith, and she shall find her path. The red priestess will find the path to victory.</p><p>She felt her womb quicken. Melisandre had not yet forgotten her art. The watchman’s lust would soon prove treacherous for their sakes. </p><p>Hers was the Lord’s device, a cauldron of holy fire. It had been called a womb, yet that was of the princess that had come before. </p><p>“<em>The princess that was gone</em>,” she thought,”<em>Who died long ago, in those silken roads</em>.” She had forgotten that name, what her good mother called her as she was swaddled at her breast. Melisandre was the Lord’s now, with all her body and her will.</p><p>Hers was the sconce that would bear no common torch. The brighter the flame, the darker the shadow. They shall taste what they have wrought.</p><p>The Lord of Winterfell would find a holy blade pierce his cursed soul as he receives his prize.</p><p>“<em>Who will rule</em>,” she pondered<em>,”when this Lord of Winterfell is slain?” </em></p><p>“<em>Only the purest shall remain</em>,” Melisandre thought,”<em>after the fires cleanse. When the Lord’s hand burns the dark away</em>.”</p><p>She envied the priests of old, who could decipher prophecies as easily as they could conjure flame. Melisandre could not see her path. They had their fires, while she only her shadow.</p><p>That night, darkness sullied her dreams. Voices whispered in a harsh tongue that she did not know. </p><p>A boy sat alone amidst a tangle of frayed roots that crawled from his skin. His face was young yet old, smooth with a boy’s youth yet lined with an elder’s wrinkles. His smile was warm yet cold, sinking into his eyes in bloody streaks. Beneath his throne, a wolf’s head lay beside several rotting corpses. Their blood soaked into the dirt, watering the roots of the tree. His eyelids opened to reveal shining crimson pupils that were parched with webs. They saw her, and he offered his hand. She took it.</p><p>Melisandre had not meant to. She knew that this was a design of the Great Other, meant to poison her mind with false visions. Yet her hand was not her own to command. Her mind was not either. She felt another intrude upon her thoughts, bringing a searing pain. She felt another voice whisper in a youthful tone, in a tongue that she knew.</p><p>“<em>My lady</em>,” she heard him say,”<em>Rest</em>.”</p><p>When she gained her senses again, she stood amidst a winter storm. Snows curled about her feet, and she felt the stinging bite of the bitter winds. She saw tall walls rise before her, and she knew that she stood before a mighty castle. Banners blew as a host assembled before its thick curtain walls. She saw a flayed man dance to the roar of a chained giant. A lizard lion swayed under the crown of two longaxes. A flaming stallion rode astride a stalking panther. The sea of men stretched far onto the fields, beyond sight in the mist that arose. </p><p>A pedestal was erected before the host. She seemed to be upon it, beside the man that rallied this great force. He was tall, black-haired and grey-eyed. His bronze crown bore nine hammered spikes around its circlet. He shouted something in a foreign tongue, and the men echoed his cry. One of his soldiers unfurled his banner, a grey wolf prancing upon a field of snow. It blazed amidst the fierce gusts.</p><p>The light of day faded to be replaced by that of the dark of night. Torches lit the courtyard in which another host assembled. While the last wore cloaks of all colours, the men here wore only black. A great ice wall rose to their north, and a treacherous battlement rose to their south. </p><p>A man walked before the torchlight. His skin was pale as glass, and his eyes blue as sapphires. His jagged crown rested on a frozen brow. </p><p>It was the night before the new moon, and the last glimmers of light shone upon worried faces. The king raised his arm, and a horn sounded. Two blasts.</p><p>A woman appeared at the king’s side. She wore a silver cloak, and her skin was as white as the shimmering moonlight. She strode beside the king, who leaned in for a kiss. Her blue lips met his pink ones, and they embraced in earnest. The snows swirled onto their curls of hair, black and silver entwining in love. </p><p>Two men in black cloaks brought forth a prisoner. It was a wildling, dressed in the furs of the lands beyond the Wall. The king drew a milky blade and hewed off his head with a single stroke. He lifted the severed remnant by a tress of hair, and walked to one of those heathen trees of the gods they name the Old. He sprinkled its blood onto its roots.</p><p>“May the gods bless this night, and all the nights to come.”</p><p>She did not know what he spoke, for it was in another tongue, but another voice whispered it in her thoughts.</p><p>The king's laid his hand on the trunk of the heathen tree. His eyes turned white as snow, and a beast roared.</p><p>Drums rose in the north beyond the great ice, and past the battlements Melisandre could spy the first glimmer of torches. Amidst the sounds of battle, she saw no more.</p><p>Melisandre saw the boy again, smiling devilishly upon his throne of roots. </p><p>“<em>To our King of Light</em>,” he mocked,”<em>To our King of Night. I wish you the greatest fortune in the wars to come</em>.”</p><p>“<em>The fish they come</em>,” she remembered the rambling,”<em>from under the sea. Who is the Lord of Crows, and all those others?” </em></p><p>Melisandre dismissed the thoughts. They were pruned by the false visions sent by a servant of the Great Other, if not the Lord of Darkness himself. The fool had also drowned beneath the sea, having died beyond the reach of the Lord.</p><p>She would find her own path by his fires. She would find the true hero by true light.</p><p>The boy laughed, and revealed his true self. His form dissolved into ashes, and the throne unraveled. Melisandre closed her eyes as many piercing pinpricks of crimson light lashed her bones. </p><p>“<em>Labour all you wish</em>,” she heard a myriad of voices laugh,"<em>But in the end, who can hide from a thousand eyes? And One</em>.”</p><p>One light shone out above all the rest, as crimson as blood and as bright as a star, burrowing into her pupils despite her closed lids. She felt pain, blinding agony as something else seized her mind. It was foreign and formless, yet a crushing boulder that she could not stop.</p><p>She let go of her torture, and screamed.</p><p>A sharp gasp greeted her awakening from her slumber.</p><p>She had fallen asleep unknowingly against the wooden wall. It was cold to her touch, as everything in her cell felt.</p><p>Melisandre realized what had woken her. The chain upon her door rattled again to herald the coming of a visitor. It was too early for Satin to come, if her judgement was right. It was still hours before dawn.</p><p>The door opened to reveal a black cloak. It was one of Castle Black’s new lords, flanked by two guardsmen. She flinched as she saw which one it was. The door swung shut behind him.</p><p>“<em>Calm yourself</em>,” Melisandre thought,”<em>The Lord fears no one. Let his fire run through you</em>.” Her choker burned with the Lord’s blessing, and she did as she was bid.</p><p>“My lady,” Eddison Tollett took a sweeping bow.</p><p>“Lord Tollett,” she replied, her voice weaker than she had thought to command,”What brings you here?”</p><p>“I’ve taken that Satin’s told you everything,” Tollett answered.</p><p>Melisandre did not answer. She glared at his easy smile. He may have heard that, but what she had asked of him had been told in a whisper. Melisandre saw one of the guardsmen give the other a glance, then a knowing look towards Tollett.</p><p>“It’s better this way, perhaps,” Tollett continued, waving his hand,”We never told him not to. Then again, we never told him not to do anything. I suppose we should count our fortunes that you and your queens are not halfway to join that wildling princess. It would be a great hassle to bring you back, when I’m loath to leave the warm hearths the gods have kindly granted me. Though never mind that. His words saved some time.”</p><p>“You know of what Lord Marsh sent to Winterfell, do you not?” he asked.</p><p>She saw no profit in lying,”I do.”</p><p>“We have received an answer from Lord Bolton,” Tollett said,”He’s agreed to the Watch’s wishes. Our order will live another day, though I do not know how I may feel about that. One more day upon this good earth is one more day for me to suffer this Seven-cursed cold. I’ve always wondered why hell was a pit of flame. Sinners should be freezing their arses off instead of enjoying those joyous fires. I would give much to join them, damned my soul.”</p><p>“<em>You would</em>,” she thought,”<em>You already have. The instant you decided to put a knife in your Lord Commander’s back. The Seven are false. But no matter what you name, you shall receive what you wished to receive with your acts. What an unbeliever would deserve. What a traitor would deserve</em>.”</p><p>“Why did you betray Jon Snow?” she snapped.</p><p>Tollett froze in the midst of his speech. His smile faded,”Jon? Jon was my friend. The closest I’ve had perhaps since I’ve left the Vale. Our oath makes us all brothers, though little have borne witness to that vow. Yet Jon was as close a brother as I ever had at the edge of the world. He was who I drank and japed with, never at all saying that he was the son of Winterfell. He was a true friend in our merry band. He was who I fought alongside, and had been glad to fight under, braving the dangers of the Watch. He was a capable commander, who I judged to be worthy to lead Castle Black after the Old Bear. I put his name in the draw, though I regret that most soberly now. Jon should have never needed to become Lord Snow. It would have been better for all of us.”</p><p>“A man once asked me how I would like to die,” he continued,”It was a mountain clansman in the lands beside my home, and I remember his steel quite well. I was a noble, though I had no gold. Tollett is a name in the Vale, though the ones that get sent to the Wall are oft the ones without any value to keep. When he asked, I laughed, and answered as any common folk would,’I wouldn’t want to die. I still have much to live for.’ He chuckled, and his band let me go. I reckon it was because he saw a richer carriage to raid, and did not wish my scream to give them away. I still rode away as fast as I could.”</p><p>“We don’t have much liking for our lives here at the Wall,” he said,”but we have much to live for in the realm. The Wall is the only thorn in the side of whoever these masters of the dead are. I wouldn’t want them invading the south, with the minor inconvenience of ending all life. That is still my wish, though Lord Snow has made certain that we would fail. No wildling king has ever succeeded in marching against the North. Not Raymun Redbeard. Not this Joramun from ages past. Not Mance Rayder. Why should Lord Snow be any different? They had hosts tens of thousands strong, yet Lord Snow had barely enough to fill Castle Black’s field. He was doomed to fail. The Lord of Winterfell would be sure to strike against us afterwards, whether we aided his folly or not. If we fell, so would the Wall, and all the realms to the south. It was not my friend Jon that I killed. It was Lord Snow, proud and cold. A fool too, the greatest, those that think themselves righteous. So tell me, red witch, if your King Stannis chose to let the Others through the Wall, would you stand by as he did?”</p><p>“<em>I would</em>,” she thought<em>,”if he proved untrue. Yet he proved pious and loyal. The Lord has his will, but it is still for men to choose. They are presented with a choice to remain as they are, to tread the path of comfort, or to strive for their own, and gain merits much greater. The righteous path is not the one of ease. The Wall cannot hold unless the realm unites under its rightful king. Azor Ahai. The Prince that was Promised. King Stannis chose the righteous path, and Lord Snow as well. They chose to strike their own rather than bow to usurpers, to win their claims with virtue and justice. The Lord will shield their claims in the end. They will see setbacks as they doubt their faith. As King Stannis had at the Blackwater. As Lord Snow that night. King Stannis proved ultimately not the Lord’s chosen. But Lord Snow shall. He will prevail to win a greater future. He will prevail to break all evil, to break the everlasting night. Where is that wolf?” </em></p><p>“What did Bolton speak of in his letter?” she asked.</p><p>“He demanded much the same,” Tollett said,”The wildling princess and Mance Rayder’s son. I have no guess as to why he wants them. Why should a king’s sister have use when the king is dead? He should have plenty o’ teats of his own as a lord. I’ve always wished that mine, though the gods never smile on common men.” She noticed the lord had one hand on a dagger hilt. It was beneath his cloak that hid it from the men to his back, but it was clear to her eye.</p><p>“He asked also for the queen and princess, though I understand that,” Tollett almost reached his line of guardsmen,”He said that his wife and that man he named Reek are already in his custody, so we need not give him that. Though I would have not liked to find a man, I cannot place a face. The First Flint would know Eddard’s daughter, but many men stink of shit. Most here do, in any case. Curiously, he never mentioned you in his second letter. I wonder what is his cause for that?” </p><p>As his words sunk in Melisandre’s ears, she saw a flash of steel. Tollett drew his knife from its sheath and turned, cutting the throat of one of his guards in a single stroke. The man he killed collapsed with barely any noise but a gurgle and a thud.</p><p>“That’s two out of five,” she heard Tollett say,”Two for two days. If we keep this up, we’d be done before week’s end. Satin, remove the lady’s fetters.”</p><p>The other guardsmen raised his hood, revealing the youthful face that she knew. Her heart sank, as she knew that he had failed. He produced a set of keys and strode before her, kneeling to unlock the fetters.</p><p>As they fell away, Tollett instructed,”Give her a cloak.”</p><p>She had frozen from her shock, but now she regained her sense. Melisandre could not tell why this man had slain his own.</p><p>“<em>I should not be surprised</em>,” she thought,”<em>This man gave a knife to his Lord Commander. Why would he free me then?” </em></p><p>“I need no cloak,” she answered.</p><p>“Your red cloak shimmers too brightly,” Tollett answered,”Only black can hide in the night.”</p><p>“<em>You can hide nothing under the Great Other’s eye </em> ,” she thought,” <em> He is blind in the light, but the night is his kingdom</em>.”</p><p>“<em>The brighter the fire</em>,” she thought,”<em>The darker the shadow. The Lord’s grace will protect me from his foe’s eye</em>.’</p><p>She accepted the black cloak, though the ruby at her throat still pulsed with life. </p><p>“What do you wish?” she asked.</p><p>“Here is not the place to speak,” he said,”Marsh’s ears may be lurking in these halls. We must go elsewhere. Come.”</p><p>“<em>Why would he fear Marsh</em>,” Melisandre thought,”<em>He betrayed Lord Snow to gain his favour</em>.”</p><p>She knew,”<em> A traitor would fear every man’s ire, even that of his own kind, for he knows himself unrighteous </em>.”</p><p>“<em>What does he wish to do with a red priestess</em>,” she thought,”<em>to attempt the folly of his sworn brothers?” </em></p><p>Melisandre had no other choice, so she followed Tollett and Satin. They marched down the hall, past chambers that had two guards each stationed at them. She judged that it was where the two queens were held. One of the guards laid on his spear, eyes fluttering between sleep and duty. It was not uncommon for those that do not believe to feel the mortal strain. They did not give any indication of knowing that she walked away. </p><p>At the gate, they were greeted by a pair of guards.</p><p>“Lord Steward,” they grunted.</p><p>“Ulmer,” Tollett said,”Mully. The gods have granted us a most lovely night.”</p><p>“Better than the last, at the very least,” the orange-haired watchman said,”I am tired of shovelling corpses into those firepits.”</p><p>“I heard Yarwyck’s light on builders,” Tollett replied,”Perhaps you should ask him to take on that duty, if you’re tired of being under my command.”</p><p>“And spend my days hauling about ice chunks for that crude man,’ he answered,”I’d rather not.”</p><p>“Where is Left-Hand Lew?” the other watchman asked.</p><p>“Jeren was falling asleep,” Tollett said,”I did not wish to disturb his slumber in the wake of recent events, and a tired man does not do his duty well. I left Lew to guard the doors to the princess’s chambers in his place.”</p><p>“Why have you brought the red witch,” he questioned further.</p><p>“We’ve received a missive from Winterfell,” Tollett replied,”Lord Marsh wishes her attendance. For what, I do not know.”</p><p>The watchmen did not pose any further questions, and they sauntered into Castle Black’s courtyard. Clouds had blinded the full moon above, so only the dim glow of the torchlight shone upon the grounds. They met some men, but none gave them a second glance. The black cloak worked, after all. </p><p>She had expected to be led to one of the halls, but she soon found herself before the ravenry. Their boots crunched onto the fallen snow. </p><p>They entered the empty hall, then trudged up a series of winding stars. </p><p>They came to a chamber at the ravenry’s rookery. An old man was waiting for them. They entered into the dimly lit room.</p><p>Beyond the window, Melisandre saw the night skies to the south. They betrayed no light save the glitter of a distant star.</p><p>“Clydas,” Tollett greeted.</p><p>“Edd,” the old man welcomed,”You’ve brought her.”</p><p>“<em> Why does he wish me here </em> ,” Melisandre thought,” <em> What raven does he wish a red priestess to send?” </em></p><p>“Does she know?” Clydas asked.</p><p>“Only what the others do,” Tollett replied,”I dared not tell her the truth lest Marsh’s ears catch it.”</p><p>“Very well,” Clydas sighed, then started slowly,”M’lady would have heard that the Watch received a raven from Winterfell that bore Lord Bolton’s will.”</p><p>“I have heard,” she answered, unknowing of his true intent.</p><p>“We did receive a raven from Winterfell,” he said,”but it was not by Bolton’s hand. It was signed and sealed by King Stannis of the House Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”</p><p>“<em>King Stannis</em>,” her heart leapt,”<em>Is it so that His Grace lives? Could it be that the letter was a lie, and His Grace had won the North?” </em></p><p>“Stannis Baratheon won the Battle of Winterfell,” Clydas continued,”He vanquished the Bastard’s host upon the fields of snow. The Bastard’s head now rots on a spike outside the Great Hall. The other letter was a lie, a conjuration by one of the Bastard’s remaining men in an attempt to gain the Watch’s loyalty. Unfortunately, they succeeded. The Watch betrayed its lord for an unjust cause that was already lost. Marsh and Yarwyck then ordered me to send a letter to Winterfell, boasting of our treason and asking for reward from our new master.”</p><p>“King Stannis responded,” Tollett said,”We burned the letter for fear that a traitor’s hand would lay upon it, but here are his words. He condemned Castle Black for its treason against their chosen lord. He vows to march north and right what was wrong, bringing justice and order to the Wall. He demands that all true men of the Watch rise to overthrow the traitors. He demands also that his daughter and wife would not be harmed, nor the wildling princess and her nephew. Curiously, he did not mention you. If any harm is laid upon them, he vows that he will burn Castle Black to the ground if need be and make his own Watch. We did not wish to warn Marsh and the other mutineers of the coming storm lest he try to escape, so we made another letter. This we signed in the name of the Bastard, and told what Marsh wanted to hear. It will soothe him until Stannis arrives to bring justice to the traitors. We have not the strength to oppose him, but we shall in the end. There are true men in the Night’s Watch, and we shall rise to avenge our lord.” </p><p>“<em>King Stannis lives</em>,” she thought in ecstasy,”<em>Could it be that I was wrong? The Lord shielded him against all odds. He is Azor Ahai, who has the aid of the Lord to complete his will. Though if Stannis is the Lord’s chosen, what is Lord Snow? Does he still live in that wolf?” </em></p><p>Her eyes fell on Clydas, for there was another matter that concerned her.</p><p>“<em>How did he forge the Bastard’s</em> <em>seal</em>,” she thought.</p><p>As Tollett continued his words, Satin’s and Clydas’s eyes were upon him. She looked about the rookery, and spied a crisp piece of white paper amidst the array of raven cages. It was within her reach, and she grasped it. Clydas’s eyes widened as he noted what she took, but he said nothing.</p><p>She looked at the paper in her hand,</p><p><em> Bastard </em>, it read,</p><p>
  <em> I would have liked to cut out your bastard heart and eat it, but other matters stay my hand. Traitor, you have won more honour than you ever deserve. Come south, black crow. Come south, for your home needs your aid. Come south, to your sister and her creature Reek. Come south, to my cage and your home. My six spearwives died for you. Come south, to your mother who loves you. Come south, to claim your crown. Bring my good-sister and son with you, would you, and some of my folk who know the snows. The northern lords love not a Bolton. They love not the Bastard who has claimed your throne in Winterfell in his father’s name. But they will love a Stark, whatever else you may be. Your brother named you king above all your siblings. Come south, and the Lords and Ladies of your kingdom would rise for you and strike down your foes. The south needs their king, a strong man to lead them into winter. A man who has already proven himself a lord of men. Come south, and see Winterfell.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your mother sends her love, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mance Rayder</em>
</p><p>"<em>The letter Lord Snow received was never true</em>," Melisandre realized,"<em>Stannis defeated that Lord of Winterfell and claimed the North from the hands of the usurpers. The Lord never forsakes his chosen, and they shall inevitably claim their rightful place. The man who received the ravens sought to deprive Lord Snow of his place, and made that detestable forgery</em>."</p><p>Melisandre looked up to see fear arise in Clydas’s eyes.</p><p>"<em>There are true men that pose as the false</em>," she thought,"<em>and false that pose as the true. He is in his winter years, so age has only grown the cloud about him. Yet he was the one who received the king's letter to tell Tollett. We need him all the same</em>."</p><p>She held the paper to a nearby sconce, and it burned until it was ash. The old man nodded slowly.</p><p>“What do you wish of me?” Melisandre asked of them.</p><p>“To act as a token of our loyalty,” Tollett spoke,”When I came upon the Lord Commander, he was already beyond rescue, bleeding out upon the snows. Alf of Runnymudd was just pulling out his knife, his eyes streaked with remorseful tears. Though he felt little of that as he struck his lord. Jon was barely breathing when I came upon him. He was dead, but I could still do much to aid his remaining men as the new lord took charge. I had to gain the new lord’s trust, damned my honour. Though my honour was already damned to the Seven Hells when I decided to don a black cloak. I couldn’t save him even if I were not in full view of all the eyes of the Watch that were waiting for my supposed move. I knew that I had to live another day in Marsh’s good graces, so that I may save Jon’s men, and also avenge him in the future. So I put Jon out of his misery. My hand had never felt so stained, but I had sworn to win no glory. All I sullied my honour I did as the future required, and I did as my oath bid. But I don’t wish to be hanged alongside Marsh and Yarwyck when King Stannis marches north, so I wish you to hear my words and bear witness to my truth.”</p><p>“You would do better to tell the princess or the queen, my lord,” she spoke.</p><p>“He trusts in you more,” Tollett answered,”Perhaps even more than his own wife, but I care nothing of that sort. I would rather myself in the belly of an Ice River clansman than in the pit of pig shit that is a king’s trysts.”</p><p>“<em>He is more a fool than I had thought</em>,’ she thought,”<em>The king</em><em> makes his own end. I only guide him, and he is ever faithful to his queen. The Lord’s flame is no whore, only a vessel for his will. Only a tool to aid the hero in his ends</em>.”</p><p>“That would depend,” she said,”If you shield the two queens.”</p><p>“That you need not worry of,” Tollett assured.</p><p>“My lord,” Clydas interjected,”My lady. We still have another matter we need to discuss.”</p><p>“Satin,” he said, pointing,”Bring me the letters on that table.”</p><p>“Yes,” the steward replied, and brought the old man what he asked.</p><p>“These letters we wrote to all the castles of along the Wall,” Clydas said,”I was forced to send what Marsh asked of me, falsely accusing Lord Snow of treason and presenting the mutineers as righteous arisers dissatisfied with his ills. This second letter would tell them the truth.”</p><p>“I have spoken to Lady Selyse,” Tollett spoke,”and I have her seal. We may send the letters this night.”</p><p>“You need not use this seal,” Melisandre said,”It would serve better to use King Stannis’s to convince the castles of the Wall of its truth. The king’s would command better than a queen’s.”</p><p>She produced a seal from beneath the folds of her robe.</p><p>“Very well,” Clydas spoke. The burning stag shone upon melting wax, and Clydas prepared the ravens.</p><p>“We have only three left that we trained for the new castles after we sent out the last flock,” he told her,”but it shall be enough. As long as the ones to Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower succeed, the truth would be known.”</p><p>As she watched the fields beyond the window, she saw the clouds suddenly part to reveal the full glory of the moon. She moved to shout a warning, but Clydas had released the ravens. </p><p>For a time, nothing stirred. Perhaps the Watch had thought that Lord Marsh or Lord Yarwyck had ordered the release.</p><p>Then, all chaos broke loose. Men shouted as others loosed arrows at the flying birds. One was shot down, but four others made their way into the darkness of the night.</p><p>“We have to go,” she heard Tollett shout.</p><p>They rushed down the stairs, and ran from the keep into the courtyard.</p><p>“The stables,” he heard Satin gasp,”Matthar has the gate this night.”</p><p>“She lifted the folds of her dress and ran as quickly as they allowed. It was their fortune that it was not far.</p><p>“I’ll hold them,” Tollett spoke as he ran off into the shadows. </p><p>They came upon the stables, and saw that a watchman had already prepared two steeds.</p><p>“Thank you, Horse,” she heard Satin say.</p><p>“No problem,” the watchman replied as he disappeared.</p><p>In the gloom between two buildings, she heard an unmistakable growl. It was soft, but there all the same. A white direwolf loped into view. Dirt and what she thought looked like dried blood stained the flanks of his fur. </p><p>It came before her, staring knowingly at her with his grey eyes as he had that day in her tower. Those were no eyes of a beast. They were the eyes of a man. She stroked his fur.</p><p>The wolf turned and bounded towards the direction of the gate.</p><p>“My lady, hurry,” she heard Satin urge.</p><p>She mounted a chestnut garron, and looked to the courtyard. A horn had sounded, rallying the men to a disturbance. </p><p>Melisandre saw Satin mount another garron, and they rode quickly for the gate. The white wolf followed their trail. </p><p>When they approached the iron portcullis, they saw it open, a shadow above it. They rode on through, and the shadow fled as they turned their heads back. </p><p>They saw the wall dot suddenly with numerous other shadows. They released a volley of arrows, and Satin was taken in their wrath. He fell from his steed, crumbling into a broken form by the road. </p><p>Melisandre would have been hit if not for the wolf, who leapt and took three arrows in his flank. As he landed, he only hobbled a little before returning to her side.</p><p>They soon outdistanced the range of Castle black’s bows. They saw the gate open to reveal pursuit, but their own steeds will surely outpace theirs. </p><p>She prayed to the Lord, thanking him for his grace in allowing her escape. She asked him to bless Satin’s soul in the Hall of Light.</p><p>Melisandre gazed at the white wolf loping at her side. She knew who lived in that skin. For the wars to come, she knew who would rise to fight at the side of King Stannis.</p><p>She looked ahead upon the road once their pursuiters gave up the chase. Mole’s Town lay beyond the road, and she would find her purpose there.</p><p>“<em>A sacrifice</em>,” Melisandre thought,”<em>for the greater dawn to rise. A sacrifice, a price of death for life. The fires shall make the world pure. The fires, and king’s blood</em>.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. ALAYNE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alayne closed her eyes to drops of water echoing ceaselessly amidst a windless night. They were the lingering remnants of a pouring shower a day before, and her head lay upon a lump of wet grass. She flicked her tongue at the mud at her side, tasting the bitterness of the brown marsh. </p><p>Her arms and legs lay clenched, ready to attack, and her teeth sharp enough to pierce a boar’s hide. She saw her light grey fur shimmer as the moon passed overhead.</p><p>It was a full moon. A wolf’s moon.</p><p>She lay silent and unmoving as her loyalty bid her. She waited for her leader’s call. Her pack waited beside her. She did not know their purpose, but their leader did. All she had to do was to follow, and she would have her fair share of the spoils. </p><p>Her stomach growled from three days of hunger. Her companion a short length from her issued a whispering hiss. They warned her to stay quiet. That was what she was bid to do, until the hunt. </p><p>Then, she would have her fill. Then, she would taste the blood that the leader denied her as they marched.</p><p>A long piercing howl broke the silence of the night, and her pack rose.</p><p>Her legs moved swiftly despite their long rest. The leader was only a dark shadow that flitted between the crippled trees with their fallen leaves, but it was enough for her pack to follow. She towered above her lesser pack, but even so she was as quiet as a shadow. She would only be seen when she wished to be seen. Yet when provoked, she was as quick as a snake and as strong as a bear. They learned to know their place.</p><p>The grey wolf that was their leader had come years before when it was still summer. She had been a pup then, and had been as a sister to her. Yet as they grew, she became greater and more terrible than all others in her pack, becoming the fiercest hunter and deadliest stalker. </p><p>She claimed their pack for her own when the mummers with wolves on their banners rode past the rivers. No other had dared challenge her. Fools tried to mount her, but they were slaughtered. </p><p>All this wolf cared about, however, was that she would have her spoils. She had her mate, a dark-furred prowler with a scar on his snout. He gained that through a scuffle with one of the red men. But she knew that winter was coming. Pups stirred in her womb, unknowing that they would be born into the snow. They needed a cunning leader then to keep their pack together. One that would find them prey, and keep order in the ranks. In winter, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. She wished to survive the coming cold.</p><p>Their leader has proven her worth. They had never starved since she became the snout of the pack. Yet something had passed over her these past days. She had urged them to a ceaseless march, not even allowing a little time for a meagre hunt. The other wolves growled of mutiny, but their fear of the giant took their hold. </p><p>Their leader had disappeared ere the dusk, and they had howled for their return. She returned a moment before nightfall, with a limp and blood on her snout. One of those blades had their mark upon her flank. </p><p>It seemed that what had seized her had passed. Their leader wished for a hunt that night. </p><p>They came to a clearing, and she saw her pack line the edge of the forest. She took her place amongst them.</p><p>A path had been cut through the trees, laden with gravel that revealed where those men marched. Their tails made silent scratches that howle in the wolf’s ear.</p><p>A line of men marched down the path. Their banners were grey and crimson, one bearing that blue monstrosity and the other a golden lion. Two stallions led the way. They were followed by a string of men in the same manner, many of which did not wear steel. In the distance, she could see the faint shadow of a carriage. </p><p>She hungered for battle. These men had ravaged their lands, but they shall prove a feast for the wolves.</p><p>When near a hundred men passed, their leader came into the gaze of her eyes. He wore the same as his other men, but she could smell that he was another. He was one of their eldest, the skin betraying deep wrinkles. She always wondered why the old lead the hosts of these men. They had not the strength to keep a pack in order.</p><p>He covered himself in a disguise of blue with a red stripe running through it, ill hiding him amidst the forest greens. One of those biting glimmers lay at his belt, laid in a golden twinkle. Two steel paws hung at his saddle, and another one of their bites lay hidden beneath his cloak. </p><p>His courser was that of a strong breed, tall and mighty. She could see from its tendons that it could be swift despite its lumberous size. Though if she swept her legs from under it, its weight would be its bane. </p><p>Her mouth watered, and her stomach rumbled again with hunger. Something of his silks made a ghastly hate rise within her. Though why would she hate him more than any other man. He was their meal, alike to all others. Her claws curled still, and fury blinded her sight. She did not know why she would attack who she shall.</p><p>The howl came, and her pack wailed as one as they sprang. They came from the trees, catching the men by surprise. The skies shook with the songs of wolves.</p><p>She went for their leader, who he saw drawing his bite. Her teeth cut into the horse’s legs, and the great beast gave a deathly groan. It collapsed, the wolf dancing out of its way. The man loosed himself from the brown bands that tied him to his steed, but he collapsed onto the forest floor.</p><p>Chaos reigned around her, but her eyes found only one man.</p><p>“<em>Twin towers</em>,” she thought in a growl that she did not understand,”<em>Frey</em>.”</p><p>The man fell into a ravine at the roadside, his head striking the jagged rocks that lay in the stream. That metal object that covered his head had disappeared, his face a bloody mess. She leapt down to follow. She leapt on him, baring her fangs and seizing his limbs with her own. He lay helpless at her feet. A pale light shone upon the man’s throat.</p><p>Before she could bite and tear into her foe, a large shadow danced upon the forest floor before her. It was the giant grey wolf that was her leader.</p><p>She snarled at her, warning her back. Her mouth was crimson with blood, and she spit out a golden chunk that she had gripped in her jaws. This wolf snarled back, for it was her prey.</p><p>Her leader gazed at her coldly, and took a single step towards her. Her giant nose touched her own, the pools of her pupils welling as calm as still water. It bared its fangs, and this wolf could see the tendons tense. Darkness clouded the haughty snout that loomed high above her rival, and the sounds of the hunt faded to a whisper. The woods whispered only of death and fear. She knew that plenty, for what pack did not know of losses. Their leader’s eyes spoke of that. Of losses too terrible, and fury all the more greater. The smaller wolf felt a slice of fear wrinkle her stomach, and she found her hunger abate for a moment. She backed away, for she knew that there were other prey.</p><p>She left the man to her leader’s fury, and heard his screams as the giant wolf crushed his bones and drank his blood. But she cared not, and she ran down another who had sought to flee. She ate the fill that was deservedly her own. As the taste of blood lingered in her mouth, she felt her heart flutter. The trees faded as her mind grew dim with clouds. </p><p>Sansa saw herself again. She gazed at the wolf before her. It gave her a bloody grin, and faded amidst the green grasses as if it were no more than a ghost in the night.</p><p>She felt herself rise, beyond the forest and the rivers that made that kingdom. She rose until the earth was as far from her as the sky. Wings began to sprout from her arms, and her skin shifted into feathers. She soared above Westeros, above all the lands that made the realms of stags, lions, and wolves. She soared over mighty mountains and wondrous plains. She soared over the ashen crusts of cities and fields of burning blood. In the north, a storm gathered. She was drawn to it, as an eye began to pulse the storm.</p><p>“<em>A thousand lights</em>,” she thought,”<em>That formed one lidless pupil</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Sister</em>,”it seemed to cry, its voice dismembered by the winds whistling in her ear.</p><p>“Jon?” she whispered. He was the only brother left to her.</p><p>“<em>Jon is gone</em>,” the voice answered. Her vision became a blur, until her eyes found the courtyard of a snowy castle. Men with black cloaks huddled about a fallen figure whose blood stained the snows. The men in black cloaks held knives in their hands that glittered red in the moonlight.</p><p>“<em>Do you remember?” </em>came the lonely echo of a boy’s youthful call. It was a voice Sansa knew, but also one that she did not. It ringed young, yet was wrought with the age of a dozen greybeards.</p><p>. . . .</p><p>She was brought about by the fearful song of a dozen blades departing their sheaths. The snows swirled to reveal the throne room of King’s Landing, where Lord Stark stood before Joffrey and Cersei. It was the day after King Robert’s death, when the lions seized the throne. Lord Stark’s guards lay dead at his feet, and a dozen Lannister blades were pointed at his throat. Sansa gazed towards the Iron Throne. Joffrey sat upon it with a cruel smirk, Cersei wallowing in contentment at his side. She also saw Lord Varys, the Grand Maester,... and her father, staring down at the carnage. Her father was smiling, but his eyes were empty.</p><p>“<em>He could not do anything to help</em>,” she thought,”<em>else Cersei would have killed him. He was ever my mother’s friend, yet Lord Stark would not listen. Yet he remained true even whilst in the lion’s palm. He saved me</em>.”</p><p>. . . .</p><p>A song broke the silence that came with Lord Stark’s fall. It was a tune she knew, for the Lannisters played it many times when she was stil their hostage. The Rains of Castamere played as the slaughter drew to a close. The dim lights of the torches revealed the lone figures of her mother and brother. Her mother knelt in the center of the hall, holding Robb in her arms. Her tears mixed with the blood that sprouted from the king’s many wounds, running in rivers on the corpse-strewn floor.</p><p>Several crossbows twanged, the last torture the hosts bore their guests. She could bear the gaze any longer, yet a voice urged her to look. She could not turn her head from the blood. She could not close her eyes.  </p><p>“Don’t,” she screamed as the bolts pierced her mother’s skin. She looked up at her, her eyes already dead. “I have no sons left to me,” Sansa heard, and her mother fell on top of her brother’s corpse.</p><p>“<em>You have a daughter</em>,” she wanted to say,”<em>You gave Winterfell five children</em>.” No words came out.</p><p>. . . .</p><p>The dim torches morphed into that of a gloomy sun, and she was home again. Though a kraken banner rose above the battlements in the stead of a wolf’s. Sansa knew who ruled here. A light blinded the spikes that adorned Winterfell’s walls, but she knew. </p><p>That man strode before Winterfell’s folk on a raised platform. The man she had once thought to have called brother. The man who did not deserve to stand in either Lord Stark’s or Robb’s place. He smiled greedily as he pointed at the spikes.</p><p>“Let it be known the price for treason,” he sneered, and the lights receded to reveal two severed heads that were dipped in tar. She saw an old woman beside her collapse in horror, several others rushing to hold her upright.Sansa’s own eyes closed this time, and she heard that man’s mocking laughter.</p><p>“<em>All of them, gone</em>,” Sansa thought,”<em>Winterfell reduced to ashes. The Starks broken, their line lost</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Do you remember?” </em> the murmur was dry with solemn gravel,”<em>Do you see?” </em></p><p>. . . .</p><p>The winds blew her to the shores of a raging river. Two men stood upon the bank, one kneeling before the other. The one who knelt wore a fur cloak, and laid a crown of spikes down at the other’s feet. She thought for a moment that he might have been Lord Eddard. The other man, the one that stood, had silver hair, and a black dragon roared at his back. He smiled warmly, and raised the kneeling lord to his feet.</p><p>. . . .</p><p>Rows of crimson torches broke the shadows of a golden hall. She thought she saw the silver-haired king again, but she realized that this man was younger. Far younger, perhaps only three or four years older than Robb had been. He sat upon a bronze throne and wore a black crown. A host of men knelt before his majesty. On his left stood a red-haired man with a full beard, his right hand wearing a steel gauntlet. On his right stood a beautiful Dornishwoman, her hand entwined with his. He rose and raised his hand with his queen’s. She felt the hall shudder as the men chanted,”Long live the king. <em> Long live the king </em>.”</p><p>. . . .</p><p>The bright fires faded to the homely ones of a chamber. Her parents shared a place on their bed, her mother’s arms around Lord Stark’s. They had not yet the signs of age, her mother the fairest lady to have walked Winterfell’s halls. Lord Stark was clean shaven, and he had dimples in his face as he smiled. His nose was curved at its point, and his grey eyes were sombre and proud. He laid a tender hand on her mother’s swollen belly. He gave her a gentle kiss.</p><p>“If it’s a girl?” he asked.</p><p>“Sansa.”</p><p>. . . .</p><p>The torches blurred, and she came to another chamber. She saw a babe lying upon an ornate bed, a weeping woman at his side. She grasped the boy’s lifeless hand, but the boy remained as pale as a sheet. The door opened to reveal two other men, a handsome maester and a man with an unruly beard. The maester pointed at the boy in the bed.</p><p>“There was nothing we could do, Your Grace,” he said,”He was too weak.”</p><p>The king raised his hand and struck the maester by the cheek. He stumbled back, clutching the purple bruise that began to form.</p><p>“Too weak,” the weeping woman cried. </p><p>The king, his face black with rage, strode to her and struck her too.</p><p>. . . .</p><p>A man drew a sword at the heart of a pregnant girl. Copper-skinned men lifted him away, and a bare-chested lord lifted a pot of molten gold over his head.</p><p>“A crown for a crippled king.”</p><p>. . . .</p><p>A plump red-haired woman unfastened a ring and poured a vial of clear liquid in a goblet of wine. She handed it to a plain knight with  a blue cloak.</p><p>“For my lord.”</p><p>. . . .</p><p>She rose again above the realm. The vast fields unfolded beneath her feet, ripe with greenery.</p><p>“<em>When winter comes</em>,” Lord Stark’s warning came,”<em>the lone wolf dies, and the pack survives</em>.”</p><p>“<em>But it is still summer</em>,” she thought,”<em>The warmth of the sun is on my wings. When food is plenty and need is scarce, when there is no need for trust, when the greatest wish is not to survive but to rule, the pack becomes a burden, and the lone wolf survives</em>.”</p><p>Alayne turned her back on the northern snows, a white that blinded the horizon. She looked south.</p><p>Alayne woke to the soft swish of an oiled hinge. Her senses came to as her blurred vision cleared. The candle had gone out, and the room soaked in darkness. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows, and found that she was home. She was in her old chamber at Winterfell.</p><p>The wooden door slowly opened to admit a shadowy form. She always wondered if he would come. Her mother had warned her with such stories, and Sansa had feared the dark of night. </p><p>Alayne, however, felt strangely expectant, as if she wished him to come. As he drew closer, she saw his features. She gazed wistfully at the dark locks that had long since been lost. His grey eyes found her own as he finally freed himself of that sullen mood. </p><p>Alayne was glad to give that to him. He laid a soft kiss on her lips, his tongue rough and watery. She rose clumsily, staring in wonder. He took off his black cloak and undershirt, revealing the dark hair underneath. His calloused hands lifted her nightgown over her head. A strange and sweet sensation came unto her as the moonlight touched his brow. He unlaced his breeches, so that they both lay bare the darkness. </p><p>Alayne fell into his embrace, daring to plant a kiss on his lips as he took her as his own. She laced her arms around his neck, and moaned with pleasure as his broad chest pressed against her own soft breasts. With every pulse, her spasm sweetened. She wondered if this was what her mother had felt once. Blood ran down her legs, spilling her maidenhood unto the bed. </p><p>She lifted her love’s face, whose eyes twinkled with amusement. Alayne gazed within those dreamy wells of longing, and she felt… happy. She loved him, and he loved her.</p><p>As she kissed him again, she felt the sweetness of his breath turn sour.</p><p>. . . .</p><p>She jolted to the dim fires of the Eyrie, a foul-smelling cloth smeared onto her face. She tried to rise, but was pushed down by another. Her eyes found her attacker, a short man with orange hair.</p><p>“<em>Ser Shardrich</em>,” she thought, and tried to scream. The cloth muffled her voice. The smell took hold of her senses, and her mind faded into darkness.</p><p>“<em>The queen</em>,” was Alayne’s last thought.</p><p>In the glimmer of faint light, she arrived at a feast. The trumpets chorused as a boy king took a bite of a pie. As he took a sip of wine, he began to choke. He coughed and retched, collapsing on the floor. As his face turned purple, a serpent crawled from the gaping pit of his mouth. It slithered through the chaotic feast until it came before her. She stroked its scales, soothing its heart. She found the poisonous gaze of the queen who held her vile son in her arms. </p><p>The winds whistled her into darkness, until she came again to a start. She saw herself before the queen, who was golden-haired and green-eyed with a face of terrible fury. The queen cupped Alayne’s cheek in a slender hand, and her eyes shone with glistening cruelty. </p><p>“Whore,” she sneered,”You killed my son.”</p><p>. . . .</p><p>The buckle of a saddle again shook her into a dream. As cold breezes pierced her skin, she lulled to the shimmer of the queen’s cold gaze. The hand of which she used to grip Alayne’s cheek turned into that of a claw. Her face morphed into a lioness’s head, and roared. She felt sharp claws begin to press against her throat.</p><p>. . . .</p><p>She gasped as she heard the low rumble of a company of hooves. The cold winds bit her skin, and the gloom of a forest surrounded her. That gloom began to give way to the torches that began to blanket the night. </p><p>Ser Shadrich had not escaped unnoticed. Her rescue had come. </p><p>“<em>It must be my father’s men</em>,” she thought,”<em>He would truth no other to learn my name</em>.” She heard the brush of bushes to both her flanks. </p><p>She felt herself thrown off the saddle, tumbling onto the forest floor. Her dark brown hair cascaded over her eyes. Someone pulled her hair back, forcing her chin up, and she felt a touch of icy steel upon her throat. As her hair fell back, she saw who had come.</p><p>The Young Falcon’s face was furious this night. Her betrothed had seemingly departed in a hurry, for he still wore the same robes that he sported during the feast. It had armour underneath, so it would serve him well here. The polished steel was glossed with dirt and mud, no longer a glamorous ornament. The Waynwood brothers flanked him. No banner hung above their heads. Only the tips of seven bows trained on Ser Shadrich. She guessed that there were twice as many beyond her sight.</p><p>As his eyes found hers, they softened. His sandy hair was unkempt, though the face framed was still as handsome as she remembered. The moonlight dappled upon his gallant form, strong and lithe in the steel of the Vale. He was every inch as beautiful as the knights of the tales. He was every inch as valiant of the heroes of the songs.</p><p>“<em>He is more handsome than Joffrey had ever been</em>,” her heart gave a tiny flutter,”<em>He did not just look a lord. He was as true and valiant as one.</em>” </p><p>Hope began to rise in her heart, as she knew that he would save her. Perhaps some heroes did live in this realm.</p><p>Ser Harrold began to step forward, his hand upon his hilt,”How’d you think you’d get past the Bloody Gate, Ser?”</p><p>“One more step,” she heard the response,”and I’ll cut the maid’s throat.”</p><p>He stopped,”You know that if she is harmed in any manner, that I’ll have all my bows loose upon you. You will not die, for I am merciful. I’ll make certain that their tips find only parts that are not needed. We will bring you back to the Eyrie, and Colemon will patch you up. You'll face what judgement her father has to give.”</p><p>Ser Shadrich laughed,”Her father?” </p><p>Alayne suddenly realized what would come out of his mouth. She braced his revelation.</p><p>“That lickspittle swine called Baelish.? That craven who could only lord a stuttering child? What am I to fear of him?”</p><p>“Much and more,” Ser Harrold responded,”if you slay his daughter.”</p><p>She could feel the piercing gaze of his cold eyes. She could see the tense quivers of drawn bowstrings. The night was silent save the echoes of their voices. The hands of the Vale knights tightened on their hilts. She felt the dagger dig deeper into her skin, and the wet trickle of a drop of blood. </p><p>“If it comes to a fight,” Ser Harrold said,”then my bride is doomed to die. Your corpse will be of no use to me then. Let us come to a compromise. You want gold, and I want my bride. I can offer you that for her safe return. I will allow you out of this circle, to flee far with your ransom. This is as best an offer you can receive, for if you refuse, you shall die a penniless man. I have no wish to do that, for she will fall at your side.”</p><p>Ser Shadrich thought for a moment, and seemed to consider,”A hundred dragons.”</p><p>“You have to forgive a knight his hasty departure,” Ser Harrold replied,”I did not have enough time to bring enough gold. I can offer you ten.”</p><p>“Seventy.”</p><p>“Fifty.”</p><p>“Done,” the traitorous knight replied.</p><p>Ser Harrold gestured to the elder Waynwood brother, who reached into a satchel slung on his steed. He withdrew ten and put it into another bag. He handed it to Ser Hatrrold.</p><p>“Here is ten,” Ser Harrold tossed the bag to Ser Sharich,”When you give me my bride, I shall give you the rest.”</p><p>Ser Shadrich bent to pick up the purse, careful to keep his knife on her throat. </p><p>“I shall need,” he spoke,”a little more of an upfront payment.”</p><p>The response was the toss of another ten coins. </p><p>She felt her fear abate for a moment, for she knew that she was to be saved. </p><p>Judging it to be enough, Ser Shadrich consented,”Let me out of your circle of bows, my lord. I fear that as soon as I release her, you will feather me with a dozen shafts.”</p><p>Ser Harrold looked at him with a curious glance, then indicated for the younger of the Waynwoods to bring him something. The brother brought him a cage that sported a black raven. </p><p>“This is the raven for the Bloody Gate,” he said,”If you dare to escape with my bride and dishonour your end of the deal, I shall send it with a command signed by Lord Robert and Lord Baelish to not let any pass unless ordered otherwise. That is, if your steed proves quicker than ours. I trust that you should make the right choice. I shall uphold mine. I give my word on my honour.”</p><p>“Honour that is worth less than shit,” she heard the knight mutter. He escorted her to the edge of Ser Harrold’s circle, and they parted for Ser Shadrich, Alayne, and the knight’s destrier.</p><p>Ser Shadrich swiftly withdrew his knife, and pushed Alayne towards her rescuers. She stumbled onto the forest floor, gasping in cool relief. She heard the hoofs of her captor fade, but not the other bowstrings that she had expected. </p><p>The wet dirt touched the wound in her neck, and a cold that she did not know she had felt faded in her spine.</p><p>She saw Ser Harrold give the rest he prepared to his foster brothers,”It seemed he did not wish to receive the rest. Well, he’d best ride swiftly. Send a raven to the Bloody Gate on the morrow. He should pray that he be gone then.’</p><p>He then marched to where Alayne knelt in the trail, another man having draped a cloak about her. </p><p>Ser Harrold fell upon one knee before her,”My lady. Is everything alright?’</p><p>She gave him a small nod, feeling red blossom into her cheeks. She felt his warm breath amidst the snowy trails, and lost herself in his kind gaze. A knight, a true knight, unlike all the others she had met in the south,</p><p>Ser Harrold responded with a nod,”Get Lady Alayne a horse.” He rose, and declared to his company,”We ride for the Gates of the Moon.”</p><p>She felt a man cutting the rope binding her hands, a second lifting her onto a steed, a last whispering reassurances in her ear. She lost sense of all her ride until she saw the lights of the Eyrie’s halls.</p><p>The knights escorted her to a warm chamber in the castle, where she felt a soothing touch of the burning hearth. It was welcome to her skin after the bitter cold. </p><p>Ser Harrold arranged guards outside her door, then made to leave.</p><p>“Ser,” she said,”Please stay, for a moment.”</p><p>“I think,” he replied,”that it would be… scandalous, for me to spend the night in your company before our wedding. Even if naught were to happen, your friend Lady Myranda will have the castle speaking the rumours ere the morrow’s noon.”</p><p>She understood, and nodded.</p><p>“Farewell, then,” he said,”My lady.”</p><p>“Farewell, Ser.”</p><p>It was only a moment after he left when her father arrived. He paced into the chamber with lord Royce and Lady Waynwood at his side. Their shadows sauntered across the columns and tapestries of her quarters. They were accompanied by several men-at-arms and Ser Harrold.</p><p>When he saw her, her father raced to give Alayne an embrace. He breathed long breaths when he came before her, his eyes worrisome. His frown became a smile when he saw his daughter safe.</p><p>“Ser Harrold,” he exclaimed as he withdrew,”My humble personage is at your service. I do not know how to repay this noble deed. Name anything that is within my power, and I shall grant it as the gift of a grateful father.”</p><p>“I ask for nothing,” Ser Harrold,”It is my duty to rightfully do for the hand of your beautiful daughter in marriage. It is my duty as husband to be my wife’s shield and protector.”</p><p>Her father nodded, then turned to her.</p><p>His eyes pleaded with her, ”I’m so very sorry, my love. I should have kept a closer eye on the men that would be my sworn shields. I should have seen the ones that would not keep to their oaths. It was my folly to be too trusting. Now Ser Oswell is dead, slain at your door by the traitor. I neglected the safety of my child as well. One guard is never enough, and the old knight was feeble and failing. I judged that all the good men here would be men of honour. I made a terrible mistake, and you have suffered the consequences of my doing. Can you ever forgive me?”</p><p>Alayne grasped her father’s hand,”Father, there’s nothing to forgive. It was not your wrong.”</p><p>Tears began welling in her father’s eyes, and he took her into his embrace once again.</p><p>“I lost Cat,” he whispered into her ear as she felt his silken tears,”I cannot lose you too.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. THE DRAGONBANE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Barristan knew of flame. He had been bid to serve the red dragon, whose hosts were fire made flesh. He knew of Summerhall, when roaring flares brightened the splendid halls as their light painted the skies in blood. He learned then that even dragons could burn. The fifth Aegon and his sons were all as true a dragon there could be, yet ash took their souls all the same.</p><p>He knew of the Mad King that Aerys had become, when pale shrieks of agony rang true against the slow sighs of the green death. He knew the heat. He knew the silence, as all Kingsguard had been bid in those last days before the dragons fell. They watched as their king did as he willed, hands gripping their hilts until they could not feel the leather. Yet none acted, for they knew that it was not their duty. No man dared to risk his wrath then. He knew of the helplessness, for mortals were not meant to dance with dragons. </p><p>He knew all he felt as dragons ruled war again. The world now was painted in fire and ruin. </p><p>His men had fallen. The battle had been lost. Barristan had grasped his sword, saying a silent prayer to the Stranger before raising it for what he thought would be one last time. The foes had broken their haggard line, and a flood of gold and brown had emerged to engulf them in their steel. The old knight had been ready to embrace his doom.</p><p>Then, he saw a dark dot appear against the noon sun, growing greater with each resounding pulse of his heart. Warm wind grasped his dry skin, and a shadow raised itself over their eyes. From the shadows, came wings, and searing flame.</p><p>Barristan remembered little of what had followed the fire. Cold seized his spine as the dragon scorched the sands before him. He remembered bringing his sword into his foes as he did a thousand times before, the dim screams of dying men, and a burning banner. A burning dragon banner amidst all the flame, where the queen’s majesty crumbled into ash under the sun.</p><p>At the battle’s end, what had once been many armoured soldiers were now piles of ash. Their battle had been a pit of chaos, so the breath of the dragon spared naught of friend or foe from the dancing flood of dragonfire and smoke.</p><p>Barristan himself would have stood in the path of death if not for one of his own men, a young freedman who pushed him out of its way. His saviour had then perished, for he had put himself in the fire’s way in his act. Barristan was ashamed to have not known his name. That name would forever escape him, for the remnants of the man were only darkened ash.</p><p>“<em>Unburnt</em>,” Barristan thought of the queen’s title,”<em>The fires may not harm her, but they still scorch us the same as other men</em>."</p><p>For a moment, a blossom of hope dawned upon him.</p><p>“<em>The only one that commands a dragon is the queen</em>,” he thought,”<em>Has she returned? </em>”</p><p>Yet as he raised his eyes to the skies, he saw not the black shadow that was the queen’s steed. The dragon’s scales bore an emerald glimmer in the light.</p><p>“<em>It is Rhaegal</em>,” his heart sank,”<em>not Drogon. His back bears no rider. Why has he chosen to burn this small skirmish? Is it perhaps fortune that granted us this boon, for the queen’s children are beholden to no man but her own</em>.”</p><p>He gazed upon the field, and knew that it was not fortune that prevailed. His men stood victorious in the field, though there were less than fifty left. They stood him, cleaning the rest of the foe. The dragon had chosen to burn all of them. The only fortune that came upon them was that they survived the skirmish in the wake of the dragon. </p><p>He saw still the distant clash, where gold began to triumph against grey. His own company had served well as a diversion, and their true force had struck the flank of the slaver legions. Though their numbers were far too great. Their flank had failed. The Unsullied were bound to lose if they fought alone. Their skill paled in the numbers that the slavers boasted. </p><p>Their last hope had been vanquished by the New Ghiscari emerging in the north, ready to strike their backs. Barristan had fought his hopeless skirmish in the hopes of winning the Unsullied time enough to break that main host so that they could face the other foe. That had failed, and the slaver legions had the Unsullied surrounded, doomed to crush them between their golden teeth.</p><p>Barristan’s own victory did not matter, for he had known that his battle was inconsequential in the beginning. He had been prepared to sacrifice his own in the hopes of gaining the greater triumph. Yet the battle he wished to win had failed. The dragon would have done better to serve its mother by burning the greater golden legions. His hope turned to sand upon his dry tongue.</p><p>“<em>Flame is not my friend</em>,” he thought,”<em>Not even the Targaryens, the blood of Old Valyria, could wield it safely in their hand. Not even the queen could. I certainly cannot. These beasts are not for mortals to master. In the end, I still must win this day with the hosts that a knight may command</em>."</p><p>“<em>I have no hosts left to me</em>,” he thought,”<em>A knight without an army is no threat at all</em>.” </p><p>He could barely feel the strength of Larraq holding him upright, and he turned to the city.</p><p>“<em>That is all that remains of the queen’s realm</em>,” Barristan thought,”<em>I must hold it with all the strength left in Meereen to keep those walls until the queen returns. If she does not, then I shall die defending my duty</em>.”</p><p>Barristan saw Tumco Lho’s eyes amidst the hill of corpses that the dragon had thought to spare. Far in the west, dust rode to blind the sun’s shimmer. The distant storm felt like a searing poker, yet he was powerless to fight it. The tide of battle had turned against his men, yet he could not brave the torrent of doom with them. It had been his plan. His path into the storm. Yet others now fight the battles, while Barristan could not raise his steel to aid their strength. </p><p>“<em>It was my will to march in a sally ,</em>” he thought,”<em>Their deaths are mine fault alone. I failed all that served her loyally. I failed the queen. I failed my duty</em>.” The only path left to him was to hold the walls of Meereen, to hope beyond hope that the queen would return with fire and blood to vanquish her foes.</p><p>Yet the city was another battle that he had put to the side. He did not wish to meddle again in the schemes of the Meereenese masters. It was too alike King’s Landing, where scoundrels prospered and the honourable die.</p><p>“<em>It was never my place to be a Hand</em>,” Barristan thought,”<em>The gods loath to allow a knight to serve as a knight. Though perhaps I am too old to be a knight as well</em>."</p><p>“<em>I thought it my last battle</em>,” he prayed,”<em>and was glad that it might be so. Warrior, why do you let me linger? Father, what is the price for me to meet my glory? Why can I not be with my men as they fell for me </em>?” </p><p>“Lord Hand,” he heard Larraq gasp,”What should we do? The foe is vanquished, but we have lost the greater part of our strength.” He left the other half unsaid, as most there knew the fate of the battle outside the walls. </p><p>Barristan lifted his eyes to meet the bewildered gazes of all his remaining men. They were a haggard following, hardly numbering more than a score.</p><p>“<em>Though I may be glad to die with sword in hand</em>,” he thought,”<em>There is a greater duty, for the city must never fall. These are men that I could still save even if the others are lost. I may need to command a siege</em>.”</p><p>They had only these men now. These, and the Shavepate’s. He would need to forsake all those that fought outside the city.</p><p>“<em>Lord Theon</em>,” he thought, gazing at the seas where the Ironborn formed against the Qartheen,”<em>It is best if you retreat. Regroup your ships, so that we may strike again another day. You will only lose them if we continue this fight</em>.”</p><p>He still had men under his banner, even though it was half-burnt and only two dragon heads remained. He still had his duty to fulfill.</p><p>“How many steeds do we have?” Barristan asked.</p><p>“Four,” Red Lamb replied. One of the horses that a freedman led suddenly collapsed.</p><p>“Three,” his squire sighed. Barristan nodded, and gazed to the smoke-strewn skies above Meereen’s mighty walls.</p><p>“Red lamb,” he ordered,”Take the strongest of the three. Ride to Meereen and report to the Shavepate to prepare for a siege. He may know of our situation, but you must tell so in any case. Return then with fresh steeds to carry us back to the gates. This battle may be lost but we still have the city’s walls. We must sharpen our steel for a siege, and bloody again the blades that all of you have stained. When we return to Meereen, we shall deal with the war.”</p><p>As Red Lamb rode off with a great plume of dust in his wake, he turned to his other men,”The rest of you, get to burying our comrades. Gather what you can from their corpses if you know them, and make their tombs as best as you can. We will not leave their bodies to serve as a feast for the vultures. We will give them a proper funeral once the war is won.”</p><p>“<em>The war is won</em>,” Barristan almost laughed. He needed though to keep the morale of his remaining men up, else whatever strength they still had would vanish. His men nodded, and they began their work as Barristan bid.</p><p>However, he found Larraq unmoving. His squire stared into the distance, eyes glassy and empty. The fury that grasped him in the battle had faded.</p><p>“What is it?” Barristan asked.</p><p>“Ser,” he murmured, calling him by what he was,”I killed a man. I felt his warm blood stain my hands, and saw the life leave his eyes as he grabbed at me. I wanted to help, but I could not think. I pulled my sword out instead. I did not think then, but after the fires died and that madness faded, I am frightened of his corpse. I am frightened of my sword where I hear his last gasps each time I think to grasp my hilt. Does it ever get easier? Killing?”</p><p>“No,” Barristan said,”Not for good men. I remember in my youth, I fought in the war they called the Ninepenny Kings. I duelled their king, Maelys Blackfyre, the last of the false dragons who sought to usurp the crown of the sunset lands and that of my king’s. The common soldiers in our host had named him Maelys the Monstrous, for they heard the rumours that the man had another head protruding from his neck, the remnant of the brother he consumed in his mother’s womb. It had served to heat the blood of us young knights then, for we all knew the songs and tales of valiant heroes slaying monsters. Every one of us wished to become that hero. When I laid my eyes upon him, I saw that the rumours were true. But at the very end, when I looked him in the eye with my sword through his chest, I saw no monster. I saw another man. If you seek the answer of good men, then it is no. It never gets easier, not while you fight men. There are many false knights who slay as sport, though those few that are true slay only when it is their duty. They know that their hearts are true, and so they have the courage to raise their blades. It never gets easier, only that you know your duty, and what is right to hold to it.”</p><p>Larraq nodded, and clumsily began his work.</p><p>Barristan found the body of his other squire lying amidst so many others that fought both for the queen and against. He said a prayer to the Stranger to bless their souls as they pass on, asking the Father to judge those innocent and guilty.</p><p>As he approached his squire’s face, he fingered the dark locks that framed youthful features. He had been taken much too young. He should not have been, not while old knights as barristan lingered beyond their life. Barristan wished that the Stranger would allow him to trade his own for this boy’s soul.</p><p>The brown face was lifeless, eyes having lost their fierce gleam. Tumco Lho’s fingers still grasped his shining sword as firmly as he had followed  his knight.</p><p>“<em>He could very well have been my son</em>,” Barristan thought,”<em>i</em><em>n another world. He might have followed me into another war.. I might have done my duty as a father then, as I did not now for that white cloak</em>.” </p><p>Tumco Lho was always the closest to Barristan, as if he saw him truly as a father.</p><p>His squire had followed him, and died in his place. All for a cause that Barristan lost. He brushed Tumco Lho’s eyes to a close. He was at peace with his gods.</p><p>Barristan had little strength, but he dug his son’s grave. He would not let the vultures scavenge his corpse. As he dug with a spade picked off another fallen soldier, he saw a glimmer of light in the corner of his eye. He chanced a glance towards the seas where it shone.</p><p>What he saw froze his hand. The Bay was aflame. Sails collapsed and hulls broke as a dragon soared with wings of destruction. Wherever its shadow passed, fire and death followed. As he saw what sails the burned ships bore, his fingers tightened upon the spade. The purple silks of the Qartheen darkened to ash as they melted off the poles. The dragon had chosen only to burn thor foes. </p><p>Aside the one Ironborn galleon that Rhaegal torched, the largest of them, the others emerged unscathed. Rhaegal had burned the slavers before, but he never torched such a mass. He thought again of how the dragon burned their skirmish, though it lay too far to attract its wish to burn. It was too organized. Too unlike the instincts of a beast. He looked to the east, but the horizon stood empty with no sign of resurgent wings.</p><p>“<em>Not the queen</em>,” he thought. His heart then sank, as he knew the truth. The dragon had another master.</p><p>He saw the dragon lean its wings against the wind after it had set fire to almost all the Qartheen fleet, and it turned. </p><p>Towers of waves sprung as hulls collapsed into the dark of the seas. Wooden splinters and tattered satins were all that remained afloat, the last surviving sailors hanging onto their last thread of hope.  </p><p>The Qartheen had denied the Ironborn the shores, but only their smouldering ruins lay now in the ironmen’s path. </p><p>“<em>How did Theon Greyjoy</em>,” Barristan thought,”<em>come by the sorcery to master a dragon’s will? Has Robb Stark found the buried writings of the Targaryen kings before the Dance? Is there a scroll in the Red Keep that tells on the hearts of dragons? </em>” </p><p>“<em>What will the queen think</em>,” he wondered,” <em> when she sees that one of her children serves another banner? She is proud, though she had enough sense to share her power with Hizdahr zo Loraq. I pray that she shall see the same sense again. A king needs a queen, after all, and a queen also needs a king. Robb Stark is as good a man as there could be, and his lords sailed the distant waters to Meereen to offer her a throne. If he has won Westeros, there is no worthier suitor</em>.”</p><p>“<em>It might be well</em>,” he dared to ponder,”<em>that one woman holds not three dragons. Though the man that thinks to rise as her equal needs to be capable. Only fire can dance with a dragon, as that Martell boy never learned. The young prince fell, yet perhaps this suitor shall rise to her favour. One beast is not too great a dowry when she has two more. Robb Stark shall prove a worthy maestro of a dragon, and perhaps even a necessary balance against the queen. It was a timely act for Lord Theon to seize that fire, for we had lost the battle. Without a dragon, we would have had only Meereen’s walls. With it, we shall break all our foes as Aegon did at the Field of Fire. We shall claim victory this day, until the queen should return a city without the fires of war. When that time comes, the queen could sail contentedly for her throne, and I for my home</em>.”</p><p>He would not fall in a foreign land, having failed his duty to see a worthy queen upon the throne. When all is done, he would be a true Queensguard. He would be buried beside his fathers and past knights, worthy of being entombed in a grave of honour. The histories shall see that Barristan the Bold earned his name to the very end.</p><p>Barristan gazed north, where the New Ghiscari rallied. He observed that they halted their advance. They knew what he knew, that the queen’s men had a dragon under their command. They would not risk the wrath of Valyria that had once trembled their namesake, an empire that far surpassed theirs.</p><p>“<em>They laid siege on the assumption that the queen had lost her rein over her beasts</em>,” Barristan thought<em>,”Now that her time of fire has come again, will they seek peace? When we sail for Westeros, we must stay the fleet from their isle</em>.”</p><p>Another notion crossed his mind, but he wished not the queen’s name to be sullied so<em> ,”Or we can burn them all </em>.”</p><p>He shook his head, and saw the New Ghiscari host disappear beyond the ridge. The dragon crested the sun in the path to the battlefield. </p><p>Barristan saw that it set its course for the mass of gold and grey beside the sea. It meant to aid them in a battle that was once lost. They clashed, some unknowing of the fury that would come.</p><p>Others noted its approach, and a volley of arrows blinded the skies. They buried themselves in the dragon’s wings and chest, unable to pierce the thick scales that formed its armour. All failed to stay its wrath, which then came.</p><p>A shadow fell on golden banners, dimming their glory, and flame followed. It kept its burning pth away from the front lines, for it sought not to burn its own men. </p><p>The slaver legions panicked as their rear ranks became ash. Their harsh discipline finally broke, one that survived the charge of hundreds of horsemen. The New Ghiscari were nowhere to be seen.</p><p>The golden ranks began to crack, and Grey Worm’s host seized their advantage. The remainder of the Stormcrows seized their chance to rally the dozens of horsemen left to them. </p><p>Though chains bound many of the legions together, those that did not see battle fled in a tide. Grey Worm and the Widower, if they lived, were wise, allowing those who fled unscathed to be seared with dragonfire as they distanced themselves from the Unsullied. </p><p>The queen’s legions overcame whatever remnant remained to fight, now only tiny pockets that were swiftly decimated by overwhelming odds. </p><p>“Her Radiance’s justice,” he heard someone say,”A dragon’s justice.”</p><p>“Dragon,” he heard his men cheer,”Dragon. Dragon. <em> Dragon </em>.”</p><p>The day was soon over, and the battle was won. A dragon banner rose above the corpse-strewn beaches, flying over sand and ash. In the skies, a true dragon roared their glory, its scales rippling in the sun’s mighty light.</p><p>“<em> I shall need meet this ironman </em> ,” Barristan thought,” <em> to thank him for his deed. We must plan our next course </em>.”</p><p>The sun had reached the horizon when Red Lamb arrived with their new mounts.</p><p>The last fires of the battle began to simmer and die. The shimmering light of the sunset consumed the land in its clam orange glow. A breeze fell on Barristan’s taut skin, soothing the worn wrinkles that blossomed in this battle. The dragons rose above their foes, winning this day.</p><p>He saw only the green one soaring above the battlefield. He had not seen the white one since noon when it soared into the city.</p><p>“<em>There is still the next day</em>,” he thought,”<em>More for dragons and dragon men to conquer. When the sun casts not its blessing on the earth, we shall strike the camps in the cover of darkness. We shall make good on our victory here and break all our foes. For the queen. For her kingdom</em>.”</p><p>Red Lamb brought twenty riders with him and three times as many steeds. They reined in their horses before Barristan, striking up a mound of dust. His squire and his riders dismounted to kneel at his feet.</p><p>“Lord Hand,” Red Lamb reported.</p><p>“Rise,” he said,”How does Meereen stand?”</p><p>“As well as we left it,” Red Lamb said after standing,”Fires burning in every corner of the city. The white dragon making his nest on top of a Pyramid, timely soaring to add to the flames. The pale mare is running ever more rampant in the streets, though the corpses have stopped. The man who received me told that the Sons of the Harpy have risen in full force to wreak havoc.”</p><p>“<em>Meereen is another task that I am set</em>,” Barristan thought,”<em>though matters of war must come first. The Shavepate must await my aid. Once this matter outside the city is settled, I shall turn my eyes within</em>.”</p><p>“Who received you?” Barristan asked,”Was it the Shavepate?”</p><p>His squire shook his head,”It was one of the men from your Sunset Lands. They told me his name was Lord Drinkwater. He served as the Warden of the Gate of Gold from which I entered. He had blond hair and pale skin. The man told me that the Shavepate had gone to quell the uprising by the Sons of the Harpy. He garnered what you wished of them, and I thought to return.”</p><p>“<em>Two men came with that Martell boy</em>,” Barristan thought<em>,”Ser Gerris Drinkwater, and Ser Archibald Yronwood. I sent them with the Windblown, so why have they returned? Why has the Shavepate accepted their service when it is clear that they failed in their duty? IS he a fool, to trust men foreign to his cause when times are so dire. But there might not be other worthy leaders in the city, and knights are trained to command hosts of men. They are taught to kill - more, to lead men that kill - so the Dornishman may serve his purpose. When I return to Meereen, I shall hear his word. I would accept his service if he proves loyal to the queen. The same for Ser Archibald if he yet lives. It is uncertain to ask of true heart when one’s beast burned their prince</em>.”</p><p>He thought again on Ser Gerris’s words, that they sought the aid of the dragons in the war against the Iron Throne. The queen would certainly have lost Dorne’s spears now, though the boy never had hope.</p><p>"<em>The blood of the dragon</em>,” he thought,”<em>There is no greater notion of a fool. My grandfather once told me that his father seduced and needed the first Daemon’s daughter before the First Blackfyre Rebellion. He was said to have fathered a bastard on her, and swapped him with his trueborn babe by his own wife as the heir to Harvest Hall. My grandfather boasted that he was that bastard, having the blood of the dragon in his veins</em>.”</p><p>It had been assuredly a jape, to have the blood of Valyria in his veins. A fantasy of a lord who thought to make royal his bloodline. Even if it were true, he had no more dragon blood in his veins than the Martell boy did. He could most certainly not command dragons, no more than that fool could.</p><p>“<em>What hate does Prince Doran bear the Young Wolf </em> ?” Barristan wondered,”<em>Why would he wish to wed a dragon to his son? Why should he seek to seize that throne and risk another war - It is clear that the queen would choose Stark over Martell if he had offered, for one holds the realm and the other does not. And Stark has sent his man. Martell has naught to to gain from such a foolish gamble. It was also Lannister hounds that slew Lady Elia and her children. Lord Eddard only arrived when Lord Tywin had already sacked the city, when the princess and her children were already dead by the lion lord’s hands. When the Kingslayer sat smiling on the Iron Throne, gloating over the king he slew and the oath he broke. What design does Prince Doran make?” </em></p><p>“Very well,” he answered Red Lamb,”You have done your duty well.”</p><p>He glanced over the men that accompanied his squire, and his eyes fell upon one.</p><p>Barristan walked over to the kneeling man and lifted his bowed head.</p><p>“<em>Windblown</em>,” he thought,”<em>That man they name Straw. I sent them from the city as a gesture of good will to the Tattered Prince, fruitless as that venture proved to be. How has he returned to the city</em>.” He remembered that he did not see the banners of the Windblown amongst those of the slavers, and a dreadful thought came upon him.</p><p>The blue eyes of the sellsword shone beneath a mop of white hair. His skin was as rough as worn leather, pocked with scars.</p><p>“Ser Barristan,” he greeted,”The Tattered Prince bids his welcome.”</p><p>Barristan’s hand went to his hilt,”I dispatched an envoy to your captain promising to honour the deal the late Prince Quentyn made with him. He refused. How have you entered the city again?”</p><p>“We agreed to honour that deal,” the sellsword replied,” though we saw no chance bashing our meagre strength on the great Yunkish legions. We had revealed ourselves when the Prince slew their Lord Commander, so we decided to evade their might and aid you when the time was ripe in the battle. The charge of the Second Sons distracted their attention long enough for our host to break free of their pursuit. With their might split between you and the Second Sons, we rode east. The commanders then conferred with each other, and concluded that the Yunkish had their eyes set upon blue-white banners, and would be on guard for any assault. Hungerford suggested that we ride even further East to take the New Ghiscari camp by surprise, for they did not yet suspect us of being men of the queen. We rode down their camp as they welcomed us, torching their banners and slaying many. When they rallied their men in answer, we swiftly departed their camp, knowing that we could not match their full force. We then thought to aid you in the battle that was joined in the south, but your men blocked our way. The messengers we sent to herald our goodwill were all shot down. We feared riding that way, so we pursued the only path left to us. Meereen. The East Gate. Your warden gave us the blessing of speaking our minds. Seeing the New Ghiscari horse trailing after our tails, they opened the gate to let us in. Tatters then met the Shavepate, offering himself and his swords to his service. He was in dire need, as the city was in uproar. We had thought to pass through it and join the battle, but it soon became apparent that the Shavepate required our aid in pacifying the city. We stayed, cleansing the queen’s streets and meaning her walls. When your squire came, Ser Gerris Drinkwater, having won the favour of the Prince by securing the promise of Pentos, had the command of the Gate of Gold. He bid us ride to your aid in escort of your squire, and here we are.”</p><p>“<em>That is fantastical</em>,” Barristan thought,”<em>though no more the stuff of legend as dragons who rule the skies again. No more the strings of myth as an old knight travelling half the world to a house he forsook for near two decades, serving a queen who rose to rule another realm. </em>” </p><p>One matter perplexed him.</p><p>“Why would the Shavepate send no messenger,” Barristan asked,”to tell me of your arrival?”</p><p>The Windblown man looked to a companion.</p><p>“He did ,” another voice rose,”though there was battle in the lands outside Meereen, and a messenger ventured at his own peril. They could very well have been intercepted by foes. We ourselves were unsure of their success, for none returned. It was to the Prince’s discretion to send our horsemen to attempt to give you tidings. We only knew to do our duty as he ordered.”</p><p>The man who spoke had a lean face and a dark beard. He wore patterned plate that bore the carved sigil of a rose strewn in snow on his breastplate, the petals and flakes etched into the steel. </p><p>“<em>Ser Lucifer Long</em>,” Barristan remembered,”<em>one of that noble Westerosi house if he is to be believed, though sellswords take whatever name they please. He may bear that sigil, but he has no truth to that name. Even if he once was a man of that house. Only an exiled knight would be forced to sell his sword and ride with a company. True knights do not weigh their duty on gold. He has no claim to his house. This is the mettle of the men Ser Gerris set to my command. But they shall suffice for now</em>.”</p><p>“Do you speak the truth?” Barristan asked.</p><p>“Lest frogs turn into princes,” the sellsword replied,”and the sun rises in the west to set in the east, I swear that no false words have come out from my lips.”</p><p>“<em>A sellsword’s word is as good as gold</em>,” Barristan remembered the saying of the famed Golden Company,”<em>yet gold is as treacherous as an oathbreaker's blade. They have earned my tolerance, but not my trust. We have their promised gold with our victory on this day, so that should please the company now and sway it from treason</em>.”</p><p>“Very well,” he said as he withdrew from the throng of sellswords,”Rise, We ride soon.”</p><p>“<em>We must deal with this war</em>.”</p><p>They mounted the steeds that their aid lended, Barristan choosing a brown stallion.</p><p>“<em>The queen’s Silver has fallen </em> ,” he thought,” <em> The steed she told me that her husband the Dothraki horse lord gave her as a wedding gift. It was the steed that had followed the queen since the very beginning. It did its duty, and fell also under my hand. I have lost too much for her. All the queen’s men this day fought valiantly, sacrificing their utmost for that banner we must serve. This victory is what little I could bring her. What little I could do to honour their souls</em>.”</p><p>“Pocho,” he called once they sat astride their newfound mounts. </p><p>The surviving Ghiscari man trotted before him, greeting him in mongrel Ghiscari,”Lord Master.”</p><p>“<em>I am no master</em>,” he thought,”<em>a</em><em>s I was never a Hand. They honour me in each breath, though I know that I am only a knight. An old knight at that. A man who’s tasted enough of the world’s fire</em>,”</p><p>“<em>What did Cregan Stark think</em>,” he wondered,”<em>when he rode to King’s Landing to end the Dance of the Dragons, bearing the greatest burden in the Hour of the Wolf? One misstep would have ignited fire and ruin once again. What was in the mind of Bloodraven in all his schemes and whispers? How did he shield the realm of the brother he loved from the lingering yet fierce fires of his father’s last folly? He bore the duty when no other could. I cannot hide from this duty that calls me, much I as would have liked. It calls me as it called many men from the days of old, to serve truly the realm I chose to serve</em>.”</p><p>“Ride to Grey Worm,” he ordered Pocho,”with two riders of your choosing. I would lead my company to treat the ships that came to our aid. You must convey my wishes that Grey Worm is to meet us there. Our host is surely tired, though the war is not at an end. Tell him that it is my wish that he marches our remaining host along the shore to meet our allies. From there, we shall march to break the Yunkish camp. The slaver alliance will shatter at their defeat, and our queen’s rule and cause in Meereen will be secure from her foes.”</p><p>“<em>The most dangerous of the war has begun</em>,” he thought,”<em>Its end. Perhaps those great men of old were as I were, fearful to tread a path that is not theirs. Yet that road I must take. The battle is won, yet the queen’s host must survive these coming days. Her kingdom must survive these coming days. I am no Hand, but I shall bear this burden if no other would. Let the Hour of the Dragon rise above Meereen to herald her return</em>.”</p><p>He did not know why he still held onto that hope. It was most likely that he held a broken city for a dead queen.</p><p>“<em>She has to live</em>,” he thought,”<em>Our efforts were not for naught. All who fell were not for naught. I cannot face King Jaehaerys, or Prince Rhaegar, or even her father who I once called my brother if I fail. She must live, to see my duty fulfilled</em>.”</p><p>The Ghiscari freedman gazed at the ashen fields, and smiled,”The free shall walk again. I shall relay your message as you command.”</p><p>He took two riders with him and swiftly rode for the western shore.</p><p>“Do you command the dragon?” Red Lamb asked,”I saw it burn our foes in mere moments.”</p><p>“No,” Barristan answered, shaking his head,”I only serve. The beasts are only the queen’s to command.”</p><p>“<em>We ride to meet who truly has</em>,” he thought.</p><p>“Then she shall return soon to bring us peace?” Red Lamb asked.</p><p>“Aye,” he lied, ”she shall.”</p><p>Barristan surveyed his newfound company of horsemen, riding past them on his buckling steed. He noted one of the peculiar men in their midst.</p><p>He knew how those men rode, having jousted with that lot in his youth as many times as the stars in the sky.</p><p>“<em>A Dornishman</em>,” he thought,”<em>A Westerosi. Perhaps one of the Martell boy’s companions that I did not meet</em>.”</p><p>He pulled his stallion before him.</p><p>“Who are you?” Barristan asked.</p><p>“Ser Willam Wells,” he replied with a cold sting to his words.</p><p>“Are you a companion of Prince Quentyn?” Barristan pursued.</p><p>“Aye,” Ser Willam answered.</p><p>“I once promised Ser Archibald and Ser Gerris that if they won me the Windblown,” Barristan said,”I will arrange for them safe passage from these lands to Dorne. I will allow them to have Prince Quentyn’s bones returned to his father. Your companions have kept their part of their oath, and I shall keep mine. When this battle is done, I shall deliver on that promise. Give the queen’s condolences to Prince Doran. We never meant Prince Quentyn any harm, and gave him the best of our quarters and hospitality. But all men die in war, and death is what we cannot master.”</p><p>Ser William gave a bitter laugh,”But dragons you could. Pardon me. I spoke poorly. Dragons you <em> should </em> have tamed, and not needed the Prince to do it for your petty whore of a queen.”</p><p>“You speak foolishly, Ser,” Barristan warned,”I could have had your companion’s heads for breaking into the Dragonpit, slaying its guards. The others in my council urged me to, but I alone stood against them in the matter. I can have your head right now if you continue with those treasonous words. I would forget that this reached my ear, for you are still in grief for your prince. You should do well to hold your tongue, and remember that this is the queen’s realm.”</p><p>“Aye,” came the indifferent answer,”and her husband’s.”</p><p>“<em>Perhaps the queen will raise King Hizdahr to be the power in Meereen after she sails away</em>,” Barristan thought,”<em>but he is no longer her king. There is a much worthier suitor</em>.”</p><p>“Do you understand the terms I offered,” Barristan asked,”Do you consent to them.”</p><p>“I do,” Ser Willam affirmed.</p><p>Barristan nodded, and looked down his company again. Satisfied that they were ready to march, Barristan gave Red Lamb the order to sound the horn. His squire had shielded it with his life as he was bid, never losing it even in the chaos of that skirmish. </p><p>Amidst the sombre call of the horn, they rode to greet the queen’s new fleet.</p><p> </p><p>The Ironborn landed a mile south of Meereen’s dock, preferring to avoid the city. Barristan was glad that they did, for he knew the nature of these men who were half-pirate. A city of gold is ripe for plundering, and he will not allow a sack on any of the queen’s realm.</p><p>More than seventy longships lined the beach, stretching far along the shores to the point of which the farthest disappeared beyond the horizon. Men unloaded mounts and baggage from within the decks. Near a thousand sailors stood guard outside the ships as the others arranged their provisions.</p><p>The golden kraken blew high above the mighty host, soaring in the sea wind. It rose beside a three-headed drake. The queen’s banner shone amidst the screech of the emerald beast spiralling above the fleet.</p><p>“<em>No wolf</em>,” he began to doubt his presumption,”<em>Is this truly Theon Greyjoy, to not wear his king’s banner </em>?”</p><p>A scout from their new allies greeted them, and Barristan told him to report to their leader of their coming.</p><p>Their allies knew of the small company that entered their vision, and the Ironborn turned their steel to shimmer against Barristan’s riders. Barristan ordered his men to half upon a ridge overlooking the shore.</p><p>Soon, a company of riders emerged from the beaches to greet their approach. They came before Barristan, and the lead rider trotted from their midst.</p><p>“Who comes to seek the Iron Fleet?” the man asked,”Who are you vagabonds to hold the dragon banner of the queen?”</p><p>The man was of middling height with a squat head and balding hair, though his glamorous chestnut courser made up for the might he lacked. His arms were well-muscled, and grasped his reins loosely.</p><p>“Ser Barristan of the House Selmy,” Red Lamb spoke,”Queensguard and Hand to Her Grace Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons.”</p><p>“Have you any proof of your word?” the ironman asked.</p><p>Barristan pointed north at the Unsullied host marching slowly towards them,”If you wish me to arrive at the head of a host to prove my word, then I shall. They are under my command in the name of the queen. But that is a delay I cannot afford, as I need meet with your commander at this very moment. Allow us passage.”</p><p>The ironman nodded slowly, and Barristan posed a question,”Who are you? Who holds command of this fleet?”</p><p>“Lord Urrigon of the House Sunderly, Captain of the <em> Young Kraken </em>. I come at the behest of Captain Victarion Greyjoy, who bears a gift from his brother King Euron of the House Greyjoy, the Third of that Name since the Grey King, King of the Iron Isles and the North, King of Salt and Rock, Son of the Sea Wind, Lord Reaper of Pyke, and Lord of the Seastone Chair.</p><p>“<em>Euron</em>,” Barristan remembered that name from a raven long ago, when the eunuch read aloud of Lannisport to every lord in the Red Keep.</p><p>“<em>It is not Theon Greyjoy that holds the Ironborn. It is his uncle, the sinister trickster who made the plan to drag half the realm into war. We had Varys’s birds then to report on his acts, but we have none now. Why does he seek the dragon queen? Who holds the Iron Throne in Westeros, if he rose to be king of the Ironborn? Euron Greyjoy is not one to be trusted with a dragon</em>.”</p><p>The beast overhead landed on one of the larger ships, a towering galleon with near a dozen sails that all bore either the Greyjoy sigil or the queen’s.</p><p>He drew a sharp breath as it roared, and a tingling chill slowly ran down his spine.</p><p>“<em>Who is the true master of the beast?"</em> he thought,”<em>This is not Robb Stark’s fleet, but one of a like far more malicious. Should I trust its banner that it serves the queen?” </em></p><p>He briefly pondered riding away to the Unsullied and calling for an assault, but Rhaegal, who perched on an Ironborn deck, named that notion a titan’s folly.</p><p>Barristan saw his company give the beast admiring glances. All save Ser Willam, whose eyes darted froth and back to observe the Ironborn fleet itself.</p><p>“Ser Barristan,” Urrigon Sunderly called,’Captain Victarion should like to request the honour of your presence.”</p><p>“<em>I must see the truth of this gift</em>,” Barristan thought,”<em>the truth of this ally</em>.”</p><p>“Lead the way, my lord,” he answered.”</p><p>Urrigon Sunderly turned and rode off, his company in his wake. Barristan and his own riders followed. The Ironborn lord led them past the line the Ironborn formed to protect their ships. </p><p>The lord told him that the captain resided in the ship where the dragon perched. Barristan judged that the captain would be wise to call the dragon to his mast, to make his presence all the more imposing.</p><p>He wondered of the ship Rhaegal had torched before these men had tamed him. Power is never without price, and these men knew it. But what is one ship compared to many? The fury they bought with corpses brought them victory in the end. </p><p>It was the <em> Iron Victory </em> that Rhaegal sunk. The dragon burned their victory, yet they still won it. That galleon was the flagship of Victarion Greyjoy. It seemed that the captain did not wish to sink with his ship, as he escaped the wreckage with a small half of the crew. </p><p>Victarion Greyjoy resides on the <em> Holy Halfmast now </em>, a ship named for the fame it won in that disastrous Greyjoy Rebellion.</p><p>That ship’s former name had been forgotten after it met Lord Sundrland’s fleet outside Orkmont. In the chaos of the battle, the mast snapped into two jagged halves, leaving only half a mast for the Ironborn to sail. It was fortunate enough to survive the battle, ships becoming sitting targets when they could no longer change their course. The Ironborn had defeated the crown’s fleet that day, for Stannis Baratheon had only launched the Orkmont campaign as diversion from his true assault on Pyke, Great Wyk, and Barristan’s own battle at Old Wyk.</p><p>Thinking themselves blessed by their Drowned God, the sailors of the surviving ship named it the <em> Holy Halfmast </em> to commemorate the fiercest battle it won against the direst odds. </p><p>Urrigon Sunderly was eager to share the exploits and glory of the Iron Fleet. The guide named the others as they passed. He was glad to name his own, a small vessel compared to the others, but swift in its own right. They rode by the <em> Iron Vengeance </em> , the <em> Lord Vickon </em> , the <em> Maiden’s Bane </em> , the <em> Red Tide </em>, and more than two dozen others before they arrived at Victarion Greyjoy’s new flagship.</p><p>The captain seemed to know their coming, as he had prepared a sizable procession to  receive them. A red priest stood at its head.</p><p>“Lord Sunderly,” he spoke,”You may leave us.” The lord grunted agreement and departed for his galley.</p><p>“Ser Barristan the Bold,” the red priest then greeted,”I have seen you in my fires, a bright torch that shines alone in an endless night. Lord Victarion has bid me to welcome you to share in his counsel.”</p><p>“Who are you, my lord?” Barristan asked.</p><p>“Moqorro, but I am no lord. Only the Lord of Light and his chosen can claim such honours. I am only their leal servant, to slave in their fires.”</p><p>He gestured to the ship,”Lord Victarion awaits.”</p><p>Barristan took a lingering look at the dragon that crowned the ship’s banners.</p><p>“<em> This could very well be the end </em> ,” he thought,” <em> but I must find the truth. We cannot fight this force with the strength we have, yet I cannot let one of the queen’s children languish in an unknown hand </em>.”</p><p>“After you,” he agreed. Barristan kept a hand on his hilt as he ascended a plank, feeling the eyes of the dragon stare at him. He pressed himself to dare forward, for a knight was no coward. He needed to be true to the queen. Barristan ripped his eyes from the alluring dapple of the dragon’s scales. </p><p>As they came onto the deck, a golden glimmer caught his eye. He saw, high on another deck, a massive warhorn decorated with red gold and shimmering steel. It gave a black gleam that spoke the darkness within its crest. Two men stood guard at its flanks. It was caked in ash and soot, dripping glimmering beads of water on the sodden wood.</p><p>Barristan felt the searing breath of Rhaegal behind him, and he tightened his grip. He did not turn to the furnace wind. Only a cold gust of the sea’s kiss caressed his eyes. </p><p>At the stern of the ship, aburly figure looked out to the sea. He wore a suit of plate though he was a seaman. Wet brown locks ran down his broad head, grey strings mingled amongst them. He had seemingly taken a swim for the puddle that formed at his feet. One of his hands gripped an axe, the other the railing. He wore a golden bracelet on the wrist gripping, a pulsing ruby set into it.</p><p>Barristan knew Victarion Greyjoy from a war an age before, and he was still the man he was at Fair Isle.</p><p>“Your sword, my lord,” Moqorro said as they approached,”You are to meet with the captain alone. Your companions can keep theirs, for they shall stay here.”</p><p>“<em>A sword is no use if Victarion Greyjoy decides to slay me</em>,” Barristan thought,”<em>I have already entered his den</em>.”</p><p>He unstrapped his sword and gave it to the red priest.</p><p>Moqorro smiled, a face that was all too similar to Thoros of Myr, ”You deal with the Lord of Light’s chosen. The Lord took him in his embrace, yet the captain rose from the wreckage. He bathed in dragonfire, yet rose from smoke and salt. His is the soul of heroes, and he has a greater duty to fulfill.”</p><p>Barristan advanced alone to the stern.</p><p>“Ser Barristan the Bold,” Greyjoy greeted without turning his head,”or would Barristan the Old be more fitting. The queen must lack for able men, if hobbling greybeards such as you command her hosts.”</p><p>Barristan stomached his anger and approached the ironman.</p><p>“Captain Victarion,” Barristan spoke,”I give my thanks on behalf of the queen for your aid in the battle.”</p><p>“I should like her to thank me herself. This fleet is my brother’s gift to serve her banner. It is hers by rights if she agrees to my proposal. Her foes are our foes. I shall need meet Her Grace Daenerys. Where is she?”</p><p>“She passed beyond the Dothraki Sea on her dragon Drogon,” Barristan replied, ”I rule in her name in Meereen. What proposal do you have?”</p><p>Greyjoy turned to cast a scoff at him,” I have not come to treat with old men.”</p><p>“An old knight,” Barristan said.</p><p>“A greenlander,” Greyjoy responded,”Your knights are like girls to us. I could have your head at this moment to adorn my prow.”</p><p>“Aye, you could,” Barristan replied, ”but you may find it difficult to endear yourself to Her Grace if you slay her Hand. Though you’ll have to call upon all your blades to subdue me, for I judge that you’re too cowardly to face me man to man.”</p><p>Greyjoy sniggered,”I like you, old man. I can see why she put her trust in you. Only the rarest of greenlanders are your like. Very well, I shall give you the right to treat.”</p><p>“What are your terms?” Barristan asked.</p><p>“I bring a proposal from my brother King Euron of the Iron Isles.” Greyjoy said,” A man fit to rule the Ironborn. A man fit to master a dragon as you have seen. A man who has sailed the Fourteen Seas, from the ruins of Valyria to the frozen shores of Ib, A man fit to be king. He has charged me to gift Her Grace Daenerys the Iron Fleet and the support of the Ironborn in her campaign to win back her father’s throne. On one condition.”</p><p>“What?” though Barristan already knew. There was one thing all men wished of the queen.</p><p>“Her hand in marriage,” Greyjoy echoed his thoughts, ”to be king at her side. They shall rule Westeros and bring it order and peace.”</p><p>“<em>He has gifted us his aid in our direst need</em>,” Barristan thought,”<em>when none other would cross the seas to declare their loyalty. Is Euron truly not fit to be her consort? He has proven that he can master a dragon, to be a worthy companion of her power. The queen would need to wed anyways if she were to rule Westeros, for this debacle in Meereen is doomed to fail.. Euron Greyjoy has proved a suitable husband, worthy of raising a kingdom to her call. He could be fit to wed the queen. Better than that sellsword she loved in any manner in the wars to come</em>.”</p><p>“<em>There are some truths, however</em>,”he thought,”<em>that I must find</em>."</p><p>“Who sits the Iron Throne?” he asked Greyjoy.</p><p>“Tommen Baratheon, the bastard abomination of the Kingslayer and the queen.”</p><p>“<em>Tommen</em>," Barristan thought,”<em>Joffrey is dead. What of the others</em><em>?"</em></p><p>“How many of the kings remain?”</p><p>“Four dead, one at the Wall,” Greyjoy answered.</p><p>“<em>Westeros may be a ruin</em>,” he thought,"<em>ripe for the queen’s conquest of that throne </em>.” </p><p>“How is Westeros?” Barristan asked.</p><p>“Chaos,” Greyjoy responded, ”The boy on the throne holds no true power, and the lords are weakened by their squabbles. Still, they scramble for what is left. With her dragons and our might, the throne is Her Grace’s.”</p><p>Barristan thought of the beast again, and this time he could not resist turning his eyes to its glare.</p><p>“How did you tame him?” he dared to ask.</p><p>“The Dragonbinder,” Greyjoy pointed to the horn, ”My brother found it upon the shores of Valyria when he sailed into the shadow and returned unscathed. It was what the dragonlords of old used to bind dragons to their will. Only the blood of kings can command such power, and Greyjoys were kings once.”</p><p>“<em>No wonder the dragons listen not to even their own mother</em>,” Barristan thought, ”<em>There is another answer. Though any man who has that blood could use this to command the beasts for good or for ill. It is too dangerous a weapon to keep</em>.”</p><p>“The screech I heard in the battle,” Barristan asked,”Was that the Dragonbinder?”</p><p>“It was,” Greyjoy responded,”How does my brother’s gift of the Iron Fleet fare in your mind? Do you agree to my brother’s proposal?”</p><p>Barristan pursed his lips, ”If it were up to me, I would accept for Her Grace, but it is ultimately her will to decide.”</p><p>“Very well,” Greyjoy said,”Then we shall wait until she returns to hear her will.”</p><p>A shrill scream tore into Barristan’s ear. He ruined to find a raging fire on the shores, a red priest burning a man at the stake. He tightened his grip on the railing and steeled himself.</p><p>“<em>This is not Westeros</em>,” he thought, ”<em>Not my part to interfere. I have seen this a thousand times before</em>.”</p><p>It never became easier to bear those wails.</p><p>“When she returns,” Greyjoy said, ”we shall make her a gift of the end of her war. This is a sacrifice for a blessing in the battle to come.”</p><p>“<em>The slavers are not vanquished</em>,” Barristan thought, ”<em>Their camps still stand. There are more hosts to the North and East</em>.”</p><p>“We march for Meereen,” Greyjoy spoke, ”This city that betrayed their queen. Our men shall need their rightful due.”</p><p>His words alarmed Barristan, ”This is the queen’s city. If you rise under her banner, you are here to defend it. It is not yours to plunder. There are still foes outside the city that we need to defeat.”</p><p>Greyjoy glared at him, ”They shall taste the queen’s fire when their time comes. But the city shall come first. It shall be ash three days hence, so what does it matter if our men take what they should like. They shall be otherwise lost in the flame.”</p><p>“Flame,” Barristan whispered.</p><p>“A great sacrifice that shall grant us blessings in all the wars to come. The queen should have cause to linger, and an example would need to be made of the queen’s might to the slavers who still feel an urge to resist.”</p><p>“<em>A city of innocents</em>,” Barristan felt the chilling salt spray on his kin. </p><p>His memory brought him back to a starless night when only green fire shone amidst the darkness. When he heard the roar of green fire, and screams.</p><p>“<em>Burn them all</em>,” the king hissed, ”<em>Burn them all </em>.’ </p><p>Barristan had stood by the king, watching as his madness unfolded. He did not do anything then, and all had suffered for it.</p><p>“<em>This man’s madness</em>,” he thought, ”<em>is what I feared in the queen. I served her knowing that she would break these men, not couple with them</em>."</p><p>He would not make the same mistake twice, and Barristan cannot stand by now. This dragon cannot serve in the hands of a madman.</p><p>Greyjoy smiled at him, but he only felt the cruel glint of his eyes.</p><p>“<em>This is my duty</em>,” he thought, ”<em>that I made my virtue for all the kings I served. This is the duty I owe Queen Daenerys, the Breaker of Shackles. The mother of dragons. The mother. Mhysa</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Blood of kings</em>,” he heard the echo of his grandfather’s tale,”<em>We have blood of the dragon</em>.”</p><p>“<em>I will give her dragon back</em>."</p><p>His eyes found the golden surface of the warhorn, knowing what he must do.</p><p>Greyjoy saw it a moment before he sprang. The captain raised his axe, but it was too late to stop Barristan’s lunge.</p><p>The old knight heard the weapon whoosh past his flank, but he did not turn as he flipped over a railing and landed on an Ironborn soldier below.</p><p>He knocked out with a swift blow to the temple, and took up his abandoned sword. The deck broke out in confusion as half his men drew their swords when they saw Barristan drive his blade into another Ironborn’s unarmoured belly. He pulled it out glistening with blood, eyes set on the crimson bands of the Dragonbinder.</p><p>Barristan saw some of his own fall under Ironborn blades. He steeled himself from straying from his course, for he needed to reach the horn. </p><p>He heard a shout, and ducked by instinct. A torrent of flame engulfed where he was. He rolled to the side and rose. </p><p>The ship was on fire, flames catching easily upon the wood. He heard the desperate screams of those who had stepped in the path of the dragon. Many dove into the water, not caring that it was shallow enough to break their necks.</p><p>Barristan saw his duty, unharmed amidst all the clamour. Only one man stood between them, the one of the two that did not desert his post. </p><p>The old knight ran upon the wooden deck, the fires licking at his heels. In the flame, he could not tell friend from foe.</p><p>Barristan parried an ironman’s blade and stabbed his own in the foe’s eye. A fallen splinter cut his palm, and blood gushed out.</p><p>The man before him fell screaming, and Barristan climbed to where the Dragonbinder lay on an unburnt deck. He clasped the gold with his bloody hands. The flames surrounded him, cutting off all paths of escape. He had no wish of doing so, for he knew that this was his end. He raised it to his lips.</p><p>A cold blade suddenly pierced his flash, and he saw Ser Willam holding a sword before him.</p><p>“<em>Why</em>,” he wanted to ask, but he could not stray from his duty. He blew, thinking of the queen.</p><p>The sound that emerged was a low rumble unlike the screech he had heard. </p><p>Barristan felt as if he had drunk fire, the winds of the horn searing his lungs and burning his throat.</p><p>He dropped the Dragonbinder, and collapsed gasping to the deck. The flames reached them, and Ser Willam screamed as the fires engulfed him and his blade.</p><p>Barristan himself could feel neither the fires kissing hiskin, nor the gaping wound in his chest. He saw his blood glow upon the fallen dragonhorn, and all turned to ash.</p><p> </p><p>He woke on a small isle with endless seas to all his sides.</p><p>A great gray dragon curled on the ground before him. At his tail sat a man Barristan knew.</p><p>“<em>He’s dead</em>,” Barristan thought, ”<em>It cannot be. I saw his head. This is a dream</em>."</p><p>The man lit a candle and planted it on the grass before him, a lone light in the shadows of the isle that lit the sea.</p><p>His face had been as handsome as it had been, with deep blue eyes that were almost purple. The ghastly blue that he dyed his hair and three-pronged beard were as dark as the sea. When he smiled, he revealed his golden tooth.</p><p>“I had thought to meet the queen,” Daario Naharis spoke,”Why have you come, Ser Grandfather?”</p><p>“You’re dead,” Barristan said, ”How?”</p><p>The sellsword deepened his smile, and his face turned into that of another. His blue turned to a raven’s black. A patch appeared over one eye, and his teeth were a glistening white with no gold amongst them.</p><p>“Who are you?” Barristan asked.</p><p>“Do I unsettle you?” the man replied,”I’ve seen glamours far stranger than this one. It is the simplest of magic. There are bloodier spells, more demanding of sacrifice. Sailing without the shore. Binding shadows and souls. Calling a god’s wrath in a place that has not seen such fury since the dawn of days.”</p><p>“What are you truly, sellsword?” Barristan echoed his question.</p><p>The man stroked his beast’s head, ”Oh, I am no sellsword. Perhaps a king, perhaps not. Some know me as Euron Greyjoy. Some the King of Salt and rock. Others the Captain of the Sorrows. The corpse-king of the king. The open eye of the crow. The first storm and the last. A man may see with a thousand eyes. A man may wear a thousand skins. But in the end, who is he? No one. Faceless. Formless. Would you call me a god?”</p><p>“<em>A sellsword becoming a king</em>,” Barristan thought,”<em>There </em><em>are queerer tales, though I am mad to deal with ghosts in dreams</em>.”</p><p>“There are Seven who are One,” Barristan said, ”above the will of mortal men.”</p><p>“You see not past the ceaseless glamour villains have set in your eyes,” Greyjoy spoke,”You see not the fate that awaits this world.”</p><p>A cup materialized in Barristan’s grasp.</p><p>“Drink from that cup, and see.”</p><p>Barristan peered inside the silver chalice, at a murky blue liquid that swirled inside. Its scent was sweet, and it tempted him to try its taste. He brought it to his lips and took a cautious sip.</p><p>It tasted as sweet as summer honey, yet also as rotten as putrid horsemeat. It was a mix of what his tongue most liked and hated.</p><p>As it ran down his dry throat, he saw the light of Greyjoy’s candle brighten. It lit what he thought was the dark of the sea, showing him a sight.</p><p>A great gust of ice rose on one horizon, a great torrent of fire in the other. Cities and fields lay between, but the storms expanded mercilessly. All that stood between their fury were consumed in mad ruin. When the storms met each other, they clashed, melding into one great bout of chaos. It reached Barristan’s Isle. </p><p>As droplets of bloody water touched his skin with a burning mark, the shimmering light faded to reveal Greyjoy and his candle.</p><p>“A song of ice,” Greyjoy said, ”A song of fire. Their tunes bring forth the winds of death. The world stands on the brink of ruin, when the blood of kings mingled when it should have not, awakening an ancient power that should have slept. What came was abomination. A wretch, yet more mighty than all the hosts that mortal realms can muster. The master of death. The master of Winter. The king that shall rise from ash and sorcery. The King of the Everlasting Night. The gods are dead, and men are weak. Only I can save us from fate. Only I can be the shield against doom, the storm that shall rise against theirs. I do not know why fate has chosen you to come, but I shall ask you this. Will you stand at my side as we crown the new dawn? Your battle for the queen is only one of many. Her duty is great, her burden greater. There are many wars to come.”</p><p>His candle shimmered again, and another patch of the sea shone with a light.</p><p>“<em>The Mad King</em>,” Barristan thought as he saw the ghastly glimmer of the fires on his white beard and jagged strips of uncut nails. He sat upon the Iron Throne, though only the dark robes of the pyromancers formed his court. A young knight stood beside his throne. The Kingslayer, the gold in his hair dimmer than the glint of the throne’s grey swords. </p><p>“<em>Burn them all</em>,” the king cried. The pyromancers below nodded.</p><p>“<em>Burn them all</em>,” Barristan thought, ”<em>Burn what?"</em></p><p>Barristan saw Lannister tighten his grip on his sword, creasing his brow.</p><p>“Your Grace,” Lannister said, ”What of your people?”</p><p>“Get out,” the king answered, ”Return to me with your traitor of a father’s head.”</p><p>The green of Jaime Lannister’s eyes shone brightly, and he drew his sword to earn his name.</p><p>“You name him the Kingslayer,” Greyjoy said, ”yet he did what you knew but could not. You served him, so what would you think of your duty if a million became ash before your eyes. Yet you did not know, and named him Kingslayer all the same. How is it that the young are valiant and wise, while the old become cowardly fools?”</p><p>The vision changed, and Barristan saw a boy he did not know wearing a robe of red silk and a crown of gold, standing in the queen’s place above a city of dust.</p><p>“The Prince Quentyn Martell,” Greyjoy said.</p><p>“<em>He’s dead</em>,” Barristan thought, yet doubt rose within him. The body was disfigured beyond recognition. It could be anyone’s corpse. As he looked closer, he saw that the man was right. He saw the resemblance in the form and features, a man that looked a prince in every grace.</p><p>“That boy seeks to court my bride,” Greyjoy said, ”He amuses me, and I should love to see his schemes and plots. Dust motes dance unexpectedly in the wind, they still go where it blows in the end. He has a part to play when the queen returns. He will spell her doom, and he has none now to oppose him.”</p><p>“You’ve seen the queen alive?” Barristan asked,”Where is she?”</p><p>“Becoming who she should be,” Greyjoy answered, ”Perhaps she shall not need this boy,  if you agree to accept my gift. She needs able men about her. Be true to your duty and do what you can for her battle. I offer you the chance to make right the wrongs you did. Do you accept this gift? Pledge your fealty to kneel before my banner, and swear to bring me her dragons and her love, and I shall make you anew. Your old body died on that deck, though your soul lived on when you blew that horn. That is all that matters. I can gift you a new body. A stronger body. She needs the ablest of heroes about her banner to bring the light. We need the swords of worthy knights against all the evil in our path. What do you say?”</p><p>“<em>My duty is not done</em>,” Barristan thought, ”<em>I must return to serve her</em> <em>until she meets her true realm</em>.”</p><p>“<em>A poison</em>,” another voice whispered. It was a boy’s voice, young and pleading,”<em>A slow poison, but a poison nonetheless. Whatever skin he may take, he is the same. A poison that will kill you in the end</em>.”</p><p>“No,” Barristan said, ”I serve only the queen.”</p><p>Greyjoy’s eyes burrowed in him, and Barristan saw his true form. A shapeless and bloody ghost with tentacles crawling from his darkness. A raven cawed, and the form faded. When Barristan saw his face again, he wore a frown, ”As you wish. You have made your choice.”</p><p>A harsh bolt split Barristan’s skull, and the isle disappeared.</p><p>A scorching flame blossomed into his mind, its fingers slowly devouring his senses.</p><p>He saw himself soaring high above the beaches. A host of grey men rallied before him, their leather a patchwork of clear stones in the light of dusk.</p><p>“<em>The foe</em>,” he thought as his mind burned, ”<em>the men that stand between you and your mother</em>.”</p><p>Anger arose in his blood, and he prepared to dive and give his wrath. Yet something stayed his wings. A formless call from a life he remembered now.</p><p>“<em>Mother</em>,” Barristan thought,”<em>Mhysa. The dragon queen I served. Daenerys Targaryen. These are her men</em>.”</p><p>He opened his mouth in a screech.</p><p>“<em>I am Barristan the Bold</em>,” he thought amidst the growing madness of fire, ”<em>The knight of the Stepstones. A white cloak of the Kingsguard. A servant of three kings. This is my duty. To serve. Always, to serve</em>.” </p><p>He cast his eyes south, where his true foe was. His wings brought him to his true course. The fires burned fiercer, and he knew only what he was bid to do. Searing pain racked his mind, yet he found his purpose.</p><p>“<em>Burn them all</em>,” a shriek shouted.</p><p>The ground blazed in a sea of red. He saw a giant of a man lumber through the wreckage of a ship. His eyes knew naught but fury to the one who thought to claim him.</p><p>“<em>For duty</em>,” he thought in a final moment of clarity, ”<em>For the queen </em>.”</p><p>His mind gave itself to the fires as crimson light tinted his sight. He dove towards the pit of death. The world bathed itself in red and white as the wind whistled his doom and glory.</p><p>In the end, all Barristan knew was flame.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. QUENTYN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The throne Quentyn chose was the greatest pain he had known.</p><p>“<em>I had the lot of this realm</em>,” he thought as his back ached again,’yet I chose this torture of a seat.” </p><p>The chair had seemed glamorous at first; as glamorous as old throness that gathered dust for years could be. Smiths had fashioned it of a shimmering bronze that shone despite all its dustridden days. It had shone more gloriously than all the others he had seen.</p><p>Its backrest was a company of fearsome spears, each the sigil of House Martell. Each point was still sharp enough to draw blood. Quentyn counted eleven in all, including the tips that had broken in its time. One of the spear points lay in complete ruin, having been crushed into metal bits by some dark force long ago. Another was willowy and wild, twisting and growing so as to hide its graceful companions in its shadow. A third seemed to have been torched in some mad fury, and ashen specks still dotted its coat.  A smith of later ages had reforged the point, and the new steel shone brighter than all the rest.</p><p>Quentyn had found a host of thrones from the Great Pyramid’s many rulers. There were many others to choose from. A silken one bearing velvet cushions. A golden one as pale and handsome as the sun. A peculiar silver one with elaborate carvings of graceful flowers and naked maidens.</p><p>He chose the most formidable of them all, the one worthy of showing his might and that of his house. </p><p>Quentyn regretted that choice most wishfully. Whilst he could be resting on velvet cushions after a monotonous evening receiving messengers on the Council of the Octarchy. He could not rest his back at any moment for fear of the jagged spears that might pierce his cloak and flesh. </p><p>He cursed himself again for bringing that burden upon himself. Quentyn tightened his grip on the armrest and creased his brow. He was glad at least that the side of the chair was not also forged in prickly decoration. This torment would linger for only a moment more.</p><p>It appeared that these were the duties of kingship, duties that his brother would have borne. He himself would never have craved such, being content enough to serve at his brother’s feet. Even as a petty lord, he would have made the reign prosperous. It was never his place to rule.</p><p>“<em>Yet it is now</em>,” he reminded himself as the hard bronze pained his bottom, ”For duty. For Dorne.”</p><p>There had once been eight who sat the council that overlooked Meereen. The eight of the Octarchy ruled the city again in these days, overseeing the war and convening on ruling matters.</p><p>The audience atrium of the Great Pyramid served as their place of rule, where they would sit in the day and settle the demanding concerns of the day. Below their dais would assemble hundreds of the noblest in the city, who would make up their court and help the Octarchy deliberate.</p><p>They had chosen eight thrones to serve as their seats of power. King Hizdhar had chosen a simple golden one with a Harpy’s wings sprouting from its flank as its single ornament. Master Zhak a glimmering complex of flowery carvings and dragonglass flecks on a luminous surface of pale marble. Master Ghazeen one of elegant wormwood with jewelled draperies. All a thousand times more comfortable than the throne Quentyn sat.</p><p>The council had only formed that very afternoon, and the only decisions they took were that of the war. Their scouts returned haphazardly, reporting on the battle outside, though it all soon became like tidings. No victor had emerged from the endless struggle on the beaches. The New Ghiscari watched as per their plan, waiting until a victor would rise. </p><p>Whoever won the battle would find themselves welcome to the city. Then, they would meet all the might of Meereen, New Ghis, and the Windblown set upon them, taking them by a swift stroke as they revel in their hard fought triumph. Quentyn judged that the battle would last well into the night. They needed to wait for hours more. </p><p>Six of the eight had left the atrium this day, having the leisure to rest from war’s worry. Quentyn did not have that privilege, him being the only foreigner in their midst, and had to see the council through the evening. Only Master Pahl remained to accompany him, though it was perhaps to act as the spy of the others. They would not be fool enough to leave all to the design of Quentyn. </p><p>“<em>Besides</em>,” Quentyn thought,”<em>He was the only one of the virility to continue bearing the ever tiring reports</em>.”</p><p>They would break from the arduity when Ser Gerris returned in a short while.</p><p>Though demanding as this task on the throne was, Quentyn would trade a thousand days with calloused cheeks to banish those miserable hours in the cramped stocks of the Meadowlark. He winced as that memory pricked his mind. It had been the only place they could conceal themselves after that farce of a raid, for they knew that it was the only place his brother, the true Quentyn, would not wander. It had been the only chamber without the light of day.</p><p>He remembered that day when he made his farce, when he parted with his brother. He had told himself then that they would meet again in Meereen, when he would offer in his brother’s service the hand of a queen and a cheering host bearing banners of suns and dragons. His brother would forgive him for his then, forgiving him for the needless sorrow of his false death.</p><p>They would laugh together, him with the dragon queen at his west, sailing west and watching the sunset lower about the realm they would win. Watching the peace they would forge from the ashes of the ambitious lords that tore it to pieces. Vanquishing every king that rose, all the friends and kin of Robert Baratheon that fought over his corpse. Even when a dragon dies, crows would ravish over its remains, and lesser beasts even more so. </p><p>Destiny loves to play japes with the hearts of men. He met only his brother’s corpse in Meereen, and watched only blackened burns curling about warm eyes that closed to him forever. The only foes he could vanquish were the pieces that the accursed left him to mend. </p><p>Yet that was what he bid himself when sought the plan the perfumed man instructed him to undertake.</p><p>“<em>For the realm</em>,” the perfumed man had said,”<em>All we do, for the realm</em>.” He knew that the perfumed man was much more than a merchant, perhaps a lord or prince in his own right, with hosts and coin at his command.</p><p>It had been dark in the stocks of the Meadowlark where the perfumed man’s scheme bid him. Dark enough so that their deaths may have been true in the eyes of his brother, so that he could part his way. The captain, who had their coin and doubtlessly the perfumed man’s threats, had stewards bring them meals. They had put out word that the captured corsairs from the raid were held in the stocks if someone were to chance upon them beneath the deck. They certainly looked the part after days. The raid had been of mummer’s, though some thought it true, and all did not wish to languish in the company of pirates. He knew that his brother would not have wished to meet the likes of men who slew his friends, nor was the chamber bright enough for the man who took the sun as his sigil and bore it well.</p><p>They had crept from the hull the night they reached Volantis, as his brother and the men who had stayed with him would leave at dawn. His own company had waited for the princely boy the perfumed man told him to meet in the city, but he never came.</p><p>They saw a vast host of ships that the dockhands divulged were carrying the Golden Company west. Rumours told that they sailed to Westeros in the employ of either the king Stannis Baratheon, Joffrey Baratheon, or Robb Stark to fight in their wars. Ser Willam had suggested that they join the company, for their swords were more than worthy to enter their ranks. Seeing that they failed their task, all they could do was to return home with their heads bowed.</p><p>He had refused, for he would not claim the cause, even in name, of an unfit king. He had only one king to serve, and it soon became clear who the perfumed man truly meant. He had mistook the perfumed man’s words, thought too much of what was certain to be a test, but the design was always what was plain. </p><p>There was one prince that he had a duty to serve. The prince that he had parted with. Their task was not yet done, so they sailed to Meereen alone. He could not return empty-handed to his father and sisters, nor was his will to not play his necessary role. </p><p>He did his part, and Meereen was his brother’s. He should have told him before he became too desperate to seize that strength by his own hand. </p><p>“<em>All the pieces were set</em>,” he thought, ”<em>yet your folly flipped the board</em>.”</p><p>The seat beneath him stung all the more. It was never his by rights. It was a dignified might far surpassing that of a lesser heir’s own. It was the seat of a man worthy to rule the Seven Kingdoms. It was a duty that he scarcely dared to bear the suffering and the cursed glory. Yet he had to do it all the same, for that was his duty.</p><p>“<em>There must always be a Prince</em>,” he thought.</p><p>“<em>It is best if he thought you dead</em>,” he remembered the perfumed man’s soft voice laced in steel, ”<em>Your prince gives all his heart to his mission. A parted friend drives not, for he  may return even as he fails. The dead in his cause drive him to do all the more, to do what is needed</em>.” </p><p>He hid his scoff now at the perfumed man’s words, soothing the lust for vengeance that rose. His brother did all the more, did more than what was needed.</p><p>His brother’s bones lay in an unremarkable box by his orders. The Ghiscari who treated it had not been told whose bones it was. When they returned to Dorne, it would be buried in an ordinary tomb, as they could not reveal his death as they sought the admittance of Sunspear’s crypts. It would have been the custom of a farmer or a merchant. The last he had seen his brother, he had been steward to his merchant. His brother would be that merchant’s man in that tomb forever in his memory.</p><p>But only in his memory, for the tale of Quentyn Martell shall not be told as the boy who died in a folly, though courageous, to tame a dragon, but that of the prince who won his queen. </p><p>Those were not the Prince of Dorne’s bones that saw the plainest of funerals. His own were Quentyn’s bones, the very same that would sit now upon this hardened throne. The very same that shall be Quentyn Martell’s true legacy, the greatest Prince of them all. The Prince to lead a prosperous realm and leave a grateful one in his wake.</p><p>“<em>Was this the perfumed man’s scheme</em>?” Quentyn wondered, ”<em>He had looked a spice merchant in all his guise and speech. This is a ghastly horror of a trade</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Is he proud of this web he spun of our lives?”</em> he thought, ”<em>Will he be glad that his plan saw fruit? That fleeting moment of triumph shall be the only thanks he shall receive of me. He shall do best to never show those despicable lips in my reign, those lips that spoke my brother to his grave. We were only his pieces, to be moved and discarded in his grand and fruitless quest. The gods smashed his plan all awry, yet it was my work that brought it fruit. The perfumed man’s words were now as worthless and venomous as the sweet scent off his robes. That role he bid me had been my duty as my father told me, yet that duty is done. I will not suffer anymore as the servant of his will. I have my own game to make</em>.”</p><p>The motherly caress of the fading light shone in company with distant shadows of spiralling smoke, heralding the coming of Ser Gerris.</p><p>The Meereenese herald gave voice to the knight’s arrival, ”Master Gerris of the Noble House of Drinkwater.”</p><p>Quentyn steeled his gaze as this new farce would begin.</p><p>The knight’s eyes were downcast, gloomy with the day’s war.</p><p>“He knew how to act a battered veteran,” Quentyn thought, ”Let the gods see that I know how to act a furious lord.”</p><p>His knight had always been the most accomplished mummer, best suited for this task. He had been the only in the late Prince’s company who had been consulted on their exploit on the Meadowlark. Even his cousin Arch had thought them dead, for he was too fond of wine and pleasure to risk their secret.</p><p>It was no idle feat to feign tears and deliver a passionate speech when one knows the bodies as a farce. The speech had been no lie after all, for Ser Gerris had no lasting love for sacks of flour. The other nine in their raid had been truly dead, no doubt by the perfumed man’s design, so it was simpler to remove three bodies without arousing suspicion. Ser Gerris knew, but did as he was bid and remained silent of their truth. He remained loyal to their cause. </p><p>The knight knelt now below their dais. Chatter woke amongst their court of masters as they noted his presence. </p><p>He bowed his head and dropped his hand from his hilt.</p><p>“My Prince,” he spoke with a lighthearted sting to his words. He turned to Master Pahl. “Lord Master,” he greeted in a more cut tone.</p><p>“Ser,” Quentyn began, ”You must be wondering upon the reason of my summons. It has come to my attention that you have failed in your duties as Warden of the Gate of Gold. We had given express commands that none were to leave the city without my leave lest our plans to restore the city be known to the warmongering traitors Barristan Selmy and Grey Worm. Yet it has happened to my ear that twenty men have departed from your charge, riding from the city without the Octarchy’s knowledge or consent. Is there any truth to this rumour?”</p><p>“There is, my prince,” Ser Gerris replied, raising his head, ”I was just about to come and ask of your permission when I received your summons.”</p><p>Quentyn sniggered, ”Perchance that I am daft, but I did not hear of your report before I heard that your men left the gate.”</p><p>“We received a messenger,” Ser Gerris explained, ”from Barristan Selmy, and I thought to send my men as spies to report on his movements. I had not the time nor opportunity to speak to any of the council ere the man said that he must leave, so I thought to decide for myself the sensible choice. I thought that you would understand my urgency, and that you would approve of my choice if I reported to you afterwards when I had the chance to relieve myself.”</p><p>“Fool,” Quentyn sneered in disgust, his voice as low and gravelly as a septon’s knell.</p><p>Quentyn rose from his throne, anger seething from his gaze.</p><p>“Fool,” he bellowed, and a shocked master in the court dropped a coin he was fingering in stunned silence.</p><p>As his voice reverberated in the grand hall, all glances told that he had their utmost interest.</p><p>Quentyn almost laughed at this amusing sight, yet knew that ke needed to act his anger.</p><p>Master Pahl gave him a troubled glance, shaking his head. Quentyn paid him no heed.</p><p>“It might be prudent,” Quentyn thought,” if they think me a bull-headed and impulsive fool when matters do not go my way. A useful fool that can be used easily for their designs. They certainly see my age, so it is a small matter to console their assumption and make complacent their hearts.”</p><p>“My prince,” Ser Gerris flinched, then managed uneasily to speak,“I only wished to serve your will. I never meant ill manner towards your command. I had planned to do as you were told, and did not absolve myself of your orders.”</p><p>“Yet you did,”Quentyn replied, ”It did not matter what your intention, for they shall herald the direst end to justice. Barristan Selmy and Grey Worm may be able to flee their rightful due, perhaps even to deceive Her Radiance to their false and selfish ends should they seek her in the Dothraki Sea and the gods grant us the misfortune that they find her. We could have had peace, but with knowledge I am uncertain of whether Her Radiance could see truth from trickery. All because my Ser thought yourself worthy to dapple in the plans of better men. All because you disobeyed my direct command.”</p><p>“My prince,” he turned to find Master Pahl’s hand resting on his shoulder</p><p>“What hate do you bear that old man?” he smirked whilst his eyes were ice, ”I understand your distaste for the eunuch. Those leather rats served only as tyranny’s whip. But that man your sunset kingdoms name an old knight? He seemed just and virtuous. A hard man, to be true, but that is the making and strength of all warriors. Why do you hate him so?”</p><p>“You do not the history of my realm,” Quentyn said, “Her Radiance’s kin had once ruled Westeros. She would have been a princess in a grand castle if fortune had turned in her house’s favour. But twenty years ago, their kingdoms rose in turmoil, and those who were once royalty fled to the other end of the world. Her Radiance proved worthy to become another queen, but that was her rightful kingdom. Her reign lay in Westeros, where the rule of her fathers once came to a bitter end in treason and steel.”</p><p>“Twenty years ago,” he continued, ”her father sat the throne of our realm, ushering a host of peaceful years. Yet that would not last, for a rebel lord named Robert Baratheon thought to depose the king. He rose in rebellion, plunging the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros in a bloody war that engulfed the lands in ruin. Aside him rose his following of traitorous lords seeking to unseat the Targaryens, the Houses Stark, Tully, Arryn, and Lannister. Her Radiance’s brother, Crown Prince Rhaegar, had led the forces of the crown against the rebels. Their hosts met in a great battle that would decide the victor of the war. Barristan Selmy once served Her Radiance’s father who was king at the time, and was a commander in the Crown Prince’s host. Barristan Selmy turned his cloak to the rebel lord Robert Baratheon in the battle. Crown Prince Rhaegar was slain, and the war was soon lost. My father, the Prince of Dorne, had remained loyal to the crown in the war, and lost many men in the defeat. Robert Baratheon ascended to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms, and forced my father to bend the knee. My father had been planning for the rightful rulers of Westeros to conquer again their home from the moment he bowed before the usurper. He dispatched me to bring Her Radiance to her kingdoms, for the time is ripe. Yet I see this traitor who abandoned the dragons when treason proved more desirable. I see this traitor standing at Her Radiance’s side and feeding her poisonous counsel. Can I not despise such a deceptive man who dares to call himself by the honour of a knight?”</p><p>“<em>I spoke no falsehood</em>,” Quentyn thought, ”<em>I leave for him to discern his truth</em>.”</p><p>The smirk vanished on Maste Pahl’s lips, and his eyes grew stormy and thoughtful, ”I was simply curious. It’s a pity that Her Radiance’s kin suffered such treachery from men of the like of Barristan Selmy. I pray that naught of this shall ever befall the rule of Meereen. I shall leave you to your judgement. I have no part, for it is your man.”</p><p>Quentyn turned to Ser Gerris, and thought to finish this farce.</p><p>“I should have your head for this,” Quentyn said, ”but for your valour in past battles and that this is your first offence, I shall be merciful. I shall forgive you with twenty lashes.”</p><p>“Guards,” he called. Two men clad in wavy bronze mail entered the hall and seized Ser Gerris by both arms. Those men were of the New Ghiscari, neither the Meereenese’s men nor his. He had not wished them as the guards of the council, nor did he wish to allow them access to the Great Pyramid, but Quentyn had alliances to honour. They could not do anything while they still wished much of him, and the foe is still outside the walls. They listened to Quentyn’s command at the moment, but he knew that it would not last beyond the war.</p><p>They carried the knight from the hall to the multitude of posts that lay in easy sight of much of the golden city’s eyes. Of most of the Pyramids in which their keepers were certain to be watching. </p><p>“<em>They will see a man</em>,” Quentyn thought, ”<em>good and well-intentioned, disgraced of his honour by a pampered and pompous prince who thought he knew of war. They will see a man resentful of his service to an unjust prince, seeking his vengeance. They will see a man who will be welcome to the plots and schemes of those wishing to overthrow the prince he now hates. Some may guess, and be clever enough to spurn him. But some will welcome him, and I will see</em>.”</p><p>Quentyn and his company had discussed what may conspire should Ser Barristan send a man to the city. It would prove a most enticing opportunity, and the best to send their men with the old knight’s. Ser Willam had volunteered himself for the mission, and Quentyn had bid him find as much of the state of Ser Barristan’s host so that they may prepare. Once they were gone, Quentyn proposed this farce of a judgement, and Ser Gerris agreed.</p><p>Ser Willam would have reached whatever remained of Ser Barristan’s host now. He dearly hoped that his steel and mind would lend him the strength to accomplish his task. </p><p>“<em>And to do whatever it takes</em>,” Quentyn thought, ”<em>should Ser Barristan decide not to enter the city</em>.”</p><p>Ser Willam was there to shield the old knight. To protect him and counsel him to enter the welcoming city on the beats of triumph so the masters would know his fortitude and that it was he who slew their foe. But if that could not be done, then Quentyn trusted that he knew what he must do.</p><p>Quentyn raised his eyes and met Master Pahl’s honeyed smile that returned to his conniving features.</p><p>“<em>I am done with this court and this chair</em>,” he thought, ”<em>There is still much to do, matters that require only the lone light of our voices</em>.”</p><p>“Master Pahl,” Quentyn said, turning to him,” I seek to retire to my other duties. But there must always be an Octarch in the Harpy’s Hall, as the old saying goes. I hope that you would not mind bearing the resin of the war alone for the first hour of the night. I am sorry that I shall have to leave this to you alone as I deal with other matters that demand my attention. Master Zhak should relieve you in an hour as we arranged. We have another council on the morrow with all the Octarchy, and I have numerous matters of strategy with our men to absolve before then. Would this arrangement be satisfactory?”</p><p>“Of course, my prince,” Master Pahl waved his hand indifferently, ”I have no objection. You have my leave.”</p><p>Quentyn nodded, and gazed again amidst the silent crowd.</p><p>“Master Hazkar,” he pronounced. The master withdrew from the throng and bowed before him, ”My prince.”</p><p>“I should like you to join me in my quarters,” Quentyn said, ”We have important matters to discuss regarding the city’s rule.”</p><p>“Of course, my prince,” Master Hazkar answered quickly.</p><p> </p><p>“Wine, Master Hazkar,” Quentyn asked once they settled in plush cushions in Quentyn’s quarters. </p><p>His chambers are just beneath the apex, below the queen’s lofty chamber in the Great Pyramid. He had not wished to use hers, as he did not wish to sleep in the bed that his brother had died in. This was the best of all the others, with a view to the city and comfortable lodgings. He had almost forgotten the taste of a homely chamber in his travels. It was the closest of all the foreign hearths that he would dare name akin to home.</p><p>“No, my prince,” Master Hazkar answered, ”I prefer to keep a level head in times such as these, for every minute may demand our attention. If you would forgive my impudence, I should like you to speak as to why I am here. Revels and banters could be saved for after our victory.”</p><p>Master Hazkar was all befitting a soldier’s son, hardset and curt.</p><p>“<em>Cruel too, I might wager</em>,” Quentyn thought, ”<em>and ambitious as well</em>.”</p><p>It was to be expected of a man whose father was the captain of the newly formed City Guard, and had been for the last decades.</p><p>“His father is certainly deep in the counsels of the masters of Meereen,” he thought, ”else they would not unanimously nominate him for that hand that would hold the city’s strength.”</p><p>It was something Quentyn could not allow. He held the city and his life by the thread that the masters needed him to take the queen away. For that, he required might. Once that might is gone, he and all his plans were nothing. The Windblown and the New Ghiscari are naught to be trusted. He had made a foe of the queen’s former men. If the City Guard slips from his fingers, all will turn to dust. He needed his own men, even if it is only a passing hand, lest he is too weak to stand and match the strength of all the foes around him. Lest he be too weak to be worthy of the queen’s honour. Lest he be too weak to do his duty to his father and Dorne.</p><p>“You are right,” Quentyn said. He waved a hand at his cupbearer, ”Leave us then.”</p><p>The boy he had chosen for the duty to serve him was one of the House of Loraq. He had returned many of the queen’s hostages to the Green Grace, but some he kept to shield his own cloak.</p><p>His cupbearer was a nephew to the former King of Meereen. He was a dutiful boy, obedient and able. Quentyn sometimes regretted having to use him for a game he was yet too young to know.</p><p>After the boy left their chamber, Quentyn turned to his guest.</p><p>“It’s a pity that all that can rest our minds,” he started, ”must wait until this war’s end. But that is the nature of our battle,”</p><p>“The nature of all battles,” Master Hazkar replied, ”Not just this one. The masters who gave battle to your queen when she came to Meereen stood awake for days on end, tirelessly and fruitlessly planning an inevitable defeat.”</p><p>“War brings out our greatest disappointments,” Master Hazkar continued, ”such as that debacle in the hall just then. I could easily see that you did not wish to punish a man who was clearly your longtime companion and friend. You did not wish to strain a deep bond and provoke his resentment of your friendship. Yet he disobeyed your command, and these are times of war. And the law must be held.”</p><p>“And the law must be held,” Quentyn agreed in a sombre tone.</p><p>“How fares the law in the city?” Quentyn asked, ”How well does your honoured sire think of the duty the council set him?”</p><p>“Well enough,” the master replied with a hint of annoyance, ”He is a hardened soldier under all the wings of the Harpy. These years of pampered luxury of his Pyramid have deeply saddened him, but he is as glad as he was in his youth now that he can hold steel and lead men again.”</p><p>“I trusted in the council that he would suit this position,” Quentyn said, ”as I knew little of who is best suited for these martial tasks. Yet I sometimes ponder on the fact that he is simply too…”</p><p>He hesitated, unknowing yet of how his son may think of it. </p><p>“Old,” Master Hazkar suggested, ”You need not honey your words with me. Speak the truth, for I certainly know it after watching my father’s hair whiten year after year.”</p><p>Quentyn smiled inside, for he knew that there was an opportunity in this man’s tone.</p><p>Quentyn nodded, ”He should not need to shoulder the burdens meant for younger men. He has already done his duty for this city.”</p><p>“Alas,” Master hazkar sighed, ”He has the respect of almost every Noble House in Meereen, and no man would willingly suggest another to take his place. It would be seen as an ambitious and unjust offense to usurp a worthy man’s place.”</p><p>“It is regrettable that the old would linger in such positions of honour, deserved as they may be,” Quentyn said,“whilst the young have no place to show their ability.”</p><p>“Yet what can we do?” Master Hazkar gave him a questioning gaze, ”My father will not die of his own accord to have another take his place. And who is to say who would be worthy to succeed him?”</p><p>“I will,” Quentyn replied, ”I can say who succeeds your father as the Captain of the City Guard, a position of both the utmost honour and power. But only if that master proves his sure conviction, and the position becomes vacant. The former Captain has served a long fulfilling life, and the gods should be pleased to receive him.”</p><p>Master Hazkar leaned forward, and his face was as solemn as a cliffside, ”You speak of a heinous crime in the sights of gods and men.”</p><p>“I speak of opportunity,” Quentyn continued evenly, ”You can leave this chamber willing the memory of my proposal, as empty-handed and powerless as you were before. Or you could leave these chambers a mighty man , the captain of the city’s host and a judge of its future with also the unwavering favour of a prince. What men cannot see they would not hold against you, and gods? You would be doing him a boon in the gods’ sight. Rather than let the Captain languish in the suffering of the mortal realm, he may bathe now in the eternal bliss of the high heavens. They shall be glad to receive his soul. What is pious is what you believe, and what is prosperous is also what you believe. I give you this choice as to what best suits your will.”</p><p>Quentyn leaned back in his seat against the soft pillow of silk, ”I am not to be Octarch forever.  When the dragon queen returns, I shall depart with her to our kingdoms. It is my duty then to name a successor to my position. When that time comes I shall need to name a man of worth, a man of dutiful heart, to receive the sceptre from my hands. Would he prove worthy of my favour?”</p><p>Master Hazkar stood with his same stony face, ”He would prove worthy.”</p><p>“That is all,” Quentyn waved his hand,”You may leave. I am most assured of the City Guard’s capability after your report. I bid you good fortune, and farewell.”</p><p>“Farewell,” the master answered curtly.</p><p>“Lavanir,” Quentyn called, and his cupbearer opened the door. </p><p>“Please escort Master Hazkar to the Great Hall,” Quentyn commanded.</p><p>His cupbearer nodded, and held the door for Master hazkar. The master took one last sweeping look at Quentyn’s chamber, then departed through the doorway and his cupbearer’s courtesy.</p><p>As the door swung to a close behind him, Quentyn plucked an empty goblet off the ornate table.</p><p>“<em>Would he betray my words?"</em> Quentyn thought whilst running his fingers on the smooth golden surface of the rim, ”<em>I would be a fool to trust anything of a man, even his ambition</em>.”</p><p>His father always said that a man’s ambition is the most uncertain, for one could never tell when he holds to his honour and when he does not.</p><p>“<em>All men lie</em>,” he thought, putting the cup down, ”<em>and it is all too likely of the men who fear a foreigner as their lord. They need me for the queen, so they will know that I tell the truth when it is my word against his</em>.”</p><p>“<em>What could he use?"</em> Quentyn thought, ”<em>He would be wise to use something that is not particularly strong. Just enough to ease his passing and not potent enough to appear unnatural</em>.”</p><p>He unclasped the brass collar of his breastplate and withdrew the vial within. It glowed a sickly yellow in the dying light of the day, gleaned from the fangs of a Red Mountain rattlesnake. </p><p>The poison the master may use would perhaps not even need be as strong as the one he held in his hand.</p><p>He twisted the vial in his palm, running his fingers down the polished glass.</p><p>Quentyn wondered whether he would need to use it again. It had served its purpose, and it only remained to be a danger if found upon him. </p><p>The locusts had only been a second resort, if the queen had not thought to drink the wine, but it was the one they noticed. He had put only enough to sicken the queen to a bed for several days, though she would still have the strength to walk and speak. Only enough to break Meereen’s peace so that he may heal it again by his own hands. They could not make peace on their own terms. They had to make it by his.</p><p>It was perhaps the cause of the queen’s lingering stay in the Dothraki Sea. He was confident though that she would heal, and it was time enough for him to put Meereen in order. </p><p>A familiar sense of fear suddenly rose in him as he saw that he was alone in the room.</p><p>“<em>Not alone</em>,” he thought. He felt the presence of a formless soul, of the dread before a girl’s just vengeance. He felt warm brown eyes locked upon him, searing his skin.</p><p>Quentyn ran to the balcony, where the sun cast all the dark away. For how much longer he did not know. The sun would dip below the horizon to the west in at most two hours, yet that was two hours he could spend in peace. He did not yet know how he may face the night.</p><p>Something drew his eyes suddenly as he looked beyond the walls. He saw a sea flame that began to blossom on the beaches, its soaring conjurer breathing fire and blood.</p><p>“<em>The battle is over</em>,” he thought,”<em>The dragon has won</em>.”</p><p>“<em>A victor has emerged in the fire</em>,” Quentyn realized, ”<em>perhaps even one to have mastered the beast for it to do so</em>.” The notion did not frighten him as much as he thought it would. They would die as any other when they entered Meereen’s welcoming gates.</p><p>“<em>I must join the others</em>,” he thought, ”<em>and plan the next course of our plan. The New Ghiscari should send their messengers now that the chief battle is over</em>.”</p><p>Quentyn willed himself to move, but found his senses mesmerized by the dancing fires. He stared transfixed at the astounding sight before him. The dragon dove into the flames and disappeared.</p><p>An hour perhaps passed as he lingered on the balcony, as the sun sunk into the west and the skies darkened.</p><p>A knock broke his trance.</p><p>“Come in,” Quentyn answered. </p><p>He then realized that he still held the vial in his hand, and he curled his fist about it. He briefly thought of letting it shatter forgotten into the streets below, but he decided to wait until he had met his visitor.</p><p>His cupbearer entered his chamber and bowed, ”My prince.”</p><p>“What do you wish of me, Lavanir?” Quentyn asked.</p><p>“Master Pahl has dispatched a messenger to find you,” his cupbearer answered, ”I carry his message. He asks the grace of your presence to greet our guests who entered from the Gate of the Crimson Victor. The New Ghiscari have sent their envoys.”</p><p>“<em>They have come at last</em>,” Quentyn thought.</p><p>“Tell Master Pahl that I shall join him as soon as I am of leisure.”</p><p>“My prince,” his cupbearer continued, ”There are also two Westerosi amongst their number.”</p><p>“Who?”Quentyn asked him, wondering who from his realm would come to this city.</p><p>“One is a Westerosi knight, Jorah of the Noble House of Mormont.”</p><p>“<em>The knight the queen exiled</em>,” Quentyn thought,”<em>desperate to reclaim her trust and favour. I may be able to win him to my side if I promise him my favour to win him a place again in the queen’s men</em>.”</p><p>His cupbearer’s next words piqued his interest,”The other, a Westerosi lord. Tyrion, of the Noble House of Lannister.”</p><p>Quentyn's hand tightened around the vial, and he set it beneath his cloak.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>